PATHS  OF  JUNE 

a/ 

DOROTHY  STOCKBRIDGE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PATHS  OF  JUNE 

BY 

DOROTHY  STOCKBRIDGE 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY   E.  P.  BUTTON   &    COMPANY 

Att  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS 


TO  MY  FATHER 

the  finest  man  I  have  known,  gentlest  of  poets  and 
philosophers,  of  kindly  wit  and  mellow  wisdom, 
whose  companionship  has  been  and  is  more  near  and 
dear  to  me  than  my  most  secret  thoughts. 


623927 


THE  author  is  indebted  to  "Art  and  Life,"  "Ains- 
lee's  Magazine,"  "The  Delineator,"  "The  New 
Fiction  Publishing  Company,"  "The  Portland  Daily 
Argus,"  and  "The  New  York  Sun"  for  permission 
to  reprint  poems  from  their  pages. 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 


THE  FELLOWSHIP  OF  POETS 1 

WORDSWORTH           .     .     .           7 

WHEN  I  AM  OLD 8 

ENTREATY      .....     9 

DEATH  AND  MEMORY 10 

0  CENTURIES 11 

ON  YOUR  BREAST  I  LIE 15 

SUNSET 17 

MOOD 18 

To  K.  V i  19 

Loss 21 

MASEFIELD 22 

WHEN  WINTER  STIRS 30 

THE  SWALLOW 31 

To  A  BUTTERFLY     .           32 

A  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 34 

POUGHKEEPSIE 35 

MEETING 37 

PORTLAND  HARBOR 38 

RETURN 40 

[vii] 


Contents 

PAGE 

To  THE  MUSE 42 

To  A  CHILD  THAT  DIED  AT  BIRTH     ....  45 

IT'S  BETTER  TO  BREAK  AWAY 46 

A  SONG 47 

THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY    .     .     .     .     .     .  48 

THE  SONG  OF  BALDER    ........  50 

LONELINESS    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     »     .  55 

MADCAP  APRIL  . 56 

RECOMPENSE  .    .     .     ...     ...     .     .     .58 

LAKE  ST.  SACRAMENT 59 

A  WINTER  SUNSET 63 

BEAUTY  OF  EARTH 64 

DANDELIONS 65 

THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 66 

To  RUPERT  BROOKE 67 

STAR  GOSSIP 72 

LOST  SONGS  .    .     .     .     . 73 

A  WHITE  SAIL 74 

IRREMEDIABLE     .........     .75 

THE  ETERNAL  EXILE     ........  76 

RAIN  ON  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE    .     .     .     .     .     .  84 

TWILIGHT  ON  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE 85 

STARLIGHT    .     .     .     ...     .     .     .     .     .86 

SONNET  SEQUENCE  .     .     ......     .87 

SWEETHEART,  WAKE  UP     .......  91 

[viii] 


THE  BARON'S  DAUGHTER 93 

INEFFABLE     .     .     .     .     .     . '   - ;     .     .     .     .     97 

ENTREAT  ME  NOT 98 

I  AM  GROWN  A  WOMAN     .......     99 

THE  WEST  WIND  AND  A  ROSE 100 

IF  FAITH  SHOULD  DIE 101 

POSEIDON  OF  MANY  MOODS 102 

ON  CASCO  BAY 107 

THE  GULLS 109 

FREE  VERSE 

HAUNTED  Music 113 

WHEN  ONE  WAITS  AT  NIGHT 114 

LAKE  GEORGE 115 

FAIRY  TALE 116 

THE  BENCH  BESIDE  THE  DOOR 117 

THROUGH  THE  GROVE  OF  DREAMS     .     .     .     .118 

DOWN  THE  RAINY  STREET 119 

SPRING  MIGRATION 120 

NON  OMNIS  MORIAR  .  121 


[ix] 


PATHS  OF  JUNE 


THE  FELLOWSHIP  OF  POETS 


BECAUSE  I  can  think  in  stars  and  measure 
the  world  in  rose-leaves, 
Because  the  dusk  is  to  me 
The  hour  when  the  spirits  of  violets  dead 
Commune  with  each  other, 
Claim  I  the  right  to  dream  as  you  dream, 
To  love  as  you  love, 

To  worship  the  infinite  Being  in  terms  of  the  part; 
Claim  I  the  right  to  sorrow,  as  you,  and  rejoice, 
To  sing  the  triumphs  of  nations, 
To  denounce  the  ills  of  the  world, 
To  scatter  the  blooms  of  devotion 
Before  the  fair  feet  of  my  lady, 
Whom  never  I  had  nor  shall  have, 
Yet  whom  through  the  vagrant  years 
I  have  loved  and  desired. 
To  sing  the  glad  praise  of  my  lover, 
To  tremble  beneath  his   glances  and  sigh  with  his 

sighs 

Who  never  has  sighed  nor  shall  sigh, 
Whose  eyes  I  never  shall  see. 
[1] 


The  Fellowship  of  Poets 


ii 

Methinks  'twas  but  yestereve,  deep  in  the  heart   of 

the  evening, 

I  heard  the  swish  of  a  garment, 
And  glancing  forth  from  the  casement  beheld 
The  edge  of  a  violet  robe  caught  on  the  points  of  the 

stars. 

Who  was  it  had  passed? 
Methinks  'twas  but  yestermorn 
I  heard  a  galloping  horse  upon  the  hard  roadbed, 
And  ran  to  the  window 
And  peered  out  into  the  morning, 
But  the  dust  was  thick  in  my  eyes 
And  I  could  not  see  the  rider. 
Who  was  it  had  passed? 


in 

You  and  I  are  the  echoes  that  haunt  the  mountains. 
If  we  echo  untruly  we  |niss  our  function. 
You  and  I  are  the  winds  that  call  from  the  sunset. 
If  we  call  not  truly  we  miss  our  reason  for  being. 
You  and  I  are  the  makers  of  stars, 
If  we  set  our  stars  awry  we  fail  in  our  trust 
And  our  songs  are  jangling  and  out  of  tune. 
[2] 


The  Fellowship  of  Poets 


IV 

"She  is  ill,"  they  said  on  the  countryside. 
"Her  lover  died. 

She  lies  in  her  lonely  room  on  the  sun-swept  hill 
And  moans  to  die." 

I  hastened  into  the  fields  and  gathered  daisies, 
Eager  armfuls,  white  and  yellow, 
And  carried  them  to  her  lonely  room  on  the  sun- 
swept  hill — 

Joys  to  prick  the  blackness  of  her  grief 
As  stars  the  night. 

And  this  I  did  for  the  sake  of  a  song 
I  heard  in  the  twilight. 
The  song  had  no  beginning  nor  any  ending, 
And  the  singer  was  hidden. 


There  are  many  who  scoff. 

The  wreckers  of  civilization  stand  in  the  streets. 

Clear  your  eyes  of  the  dust  of  their  falling  temples, — 

Above  the  dust  shine  the  deathless  stars. 

Climb  ye  up  to  the  lonely  housetops, 

Gather  ye  moonbeams. 

Ye  will  need  garlands  of  stars  to  enchain  your  captive 

fancies. 

The  wind  will  throw  in  your  lap 
Golden  stars  to  clasp  the  mantle  of  your  dreams. 
[3] 


The  Fellowship  of  Poets 


VI 

Let  me  sing  my  verse  of  the  song. 

Time  is  hastening,  hastening  over  the  hills. 

Let  me  sing  my  verse  of  the  song. 

Others  are  singing; 

There  are  voices  across  the  stars. 

I  ask  not  to  sing  alone, 

But  only  that  some  poor  shepherd,  weary  and  worn, 

Passing  near  to  my  bower  may  hear  and  be  comforted. 

Let  me  sing  my  verse  of  the  song. 

vn 

Come  to  it  lightly  out  of  the  hay  sweet  field, 

Laugh  at  your  singing  as  men  at  their  work. 

Sit  beneath  green  boughs  where  apple-blooms  hover 

Like  butterflies  caught  in  a  net  of  green. 

Sit  in  the  shade  and  laugh  at  your  singing. 

VIII 

Measure  your  languid  verse  in  the  lap  of  the  noon, 
Teach  the  light  triplets  to  run  with  the  feet  of  gay 

children, 

Bind  up  your  thought  in  the  heart  of  a  rose, 
Tie  the  petals  with  shreds  of  a  rainbow. 
If  you  must  sing  of  night 
Picture  the  star  clasp  on  her  bosom. 
[4] 


The  Fellowship  of  Poets 


If  you  must  sing  of  storm 

Picture  the  ingle-nook  and  the  warm  clasp  of  hands. 


DC 

There  are  two  spirits  in  my  heart. 

The  one  is  myself. 

The  other  is  gowned  in  a  tattered  rainbow. 

I  do  not  know  her, 

For  she  has  wandered  down  the  long  road  from  a 

strange  land. 

She  sits  at  the  sunset  gates 
And  watches  the  world  and  sings. 
Myself  sits  by  the  fireside, 
And  watches  the  embers,  crooning  softly. 
Sometimes  the  stranger's  voice  startles  me  there 
And  I  go  to  the  doorway. 
Our  eyes  meet  across  the  sunset, — my  other  self  and 

I- 

There  is  in  them  a  strange  recognition, 
But  we  do  not  speak. 


Bind  not  the  feet  of  love  in  the  bonds  of  desire, 
Build  him  a  cage  of  sunbeams  and  song  and  light 

laughter. 

Hold  him  not  in  your  arms  lest  he  flee  affrighted, 
Wear  him  in  your  cap,  enthrone  him  in  your  eyes, 
[5] 


The  Fellowship  of  Poets 


Flaunt  him  abroad  in  your  speech, 
Never  be  niggardly. 

Strew  his  bright  roses  before  the  feet  of  the  world, 
Laugh  and  withhold  not. 
He  will  not  wander  far  and  will  soon  return 
And  crown  your  hair  with  a  wreath  of  crumpled  rose 
leaves. 

XI 

I  have  gathered  my  fancies  into  a  net  of  song. 

Take  up  my  flowers  with  careless  fingers 

And  scatter  them  by  the  roadside. 

Who  shall  regret  them? 

The  song  is  strung  on  a  thread  of  sunbeams. 

If  a  shadow  break  the  thread,  what  does  it  matter? 

My  heart  will  reach  forth  light  fingers  of  dreams 

And  tie  the  broken  ends  into  a  knot. 

The  lost  flowers  will  laugh  and  my  heart  will  rejoice 

in  song. 

The  song  has  no  beginning  nor  any  ending, 
And  the  singer  is  hidden. 


[6] 


WORDSWORTH 

NOT  superman,  but  human,  more  than  most 
Sensitive,  to  suffer  and  enjoy; 
Holding  through  life,  and  at  what  bitter  cost, 
The  simple  heart  that  swayed  the  untutored  boy; 
Using  the  simple  speech  that  taught  his  ears 
Rough  music  ere  he  reached  his  manhood's  prime; 
Pondering  deep  through  the  eventful  years 
Impassioned  truths,  unbound  by  space  or  time. 

No  juggler  he  of  pretty  word  or  phrase, 

But,  like  the  hidden  thrush  at  even  hour, 

Pours  from  his  heart  his  heart's  impassioned  power, 

The  crown  and  garnered  sweetness  of  his  days; 

By  times  is  silent,  and  again  he  fills 

With  shepherd  pipings  all  the  Quantock  hills. 


[7] 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD 

WHEN  I  am  old  shall  I  grow  still  and  sigh, 
When  I  am  old, 

And   think   my   dreaming   past   and   hope   gone   by, 
And  life  grown  dull,  love  being  dead,  and  die 
When  I  am  old? 
Such  I  have  seen,  but  oh,  not  I,  not  I ! 

Let  me  still  know  that  dawns  are  smiling  cold 

Across  the  bosom  of  our  forest  pool, 

And  evenings  with  still  brows  are  bending  down 

On  field  and  town, 

And   noonday's  warmth  and   midnight's  starry   cold 

When  I  am  old! 

Let  me  still  know  that  song  is  good  and  laughter, 
That  men  are  brave  and  women  still  are  true, 
And  friends  are  worthy  trust,  and  after,  after 
Life  that  is  sweet  comes  sweeter  death  and  you 

Let  me  still  know  that  in  some  other  place 
Through  some  diviner  air 
Shall  bloom  the  secret  wonder  of  your  face 
Some  other  where. 

[8] 


ENTREATY 

THIS  most  I  crave,  if  even  such  as  I 
May   crave  such  things, — to   hear  the   tempest 

moan 

And  not  to  fear; 
To  see  the  wild  sprays  fly, 
To  hear 

The  swish  of  cloud- wreaths  on  tall  peaks  of  stone; 
To  suffer  grief  and  pain,  to  stand  alone; 
To  sense  the  universe  some  God  has  made, 
Grow  old  and  sick  and  sad,  grow  faint  and  die 
But  not  to  be  afraid! 


[9] 


DEATH  AND  MEMORY 

OH  Azrael,  the  angel  men  call  Death 
And  poets  call  eternal  Life  and  Rest, 
There  is  a  little  rose  upon  thy  breast 
Not  withered  in  thy  stern  and  blasting  breath, 
That  thou  hast  picked  upon  the  banks  of  Lethe 
In  the  Elysian  Gardens  of  the  blest. 
If  life  and  joy  be  dearest  this  next  best, 
Shade  of  the  light  thy  mantle  darkeneth, 

One  said,  "Lo,  Death  was  in  the  house  last  night. 
We  felt  his  icy  breath  all  through  the  room. 
His  shadow  fell  across  the  firelight, 
And   chilled    our   hearts    and    filled    our   lives   with 

gloom." 

But  on  the  hearth  what  is  it  that  I  see? 
Lo,  Death  has  dropped  his  rose  of  memory. 


[10] 


0  CENTURIES 

O  CENTURIES! 
You  have  built  high  your  myriad  dead  to  make 

this  sum. 

In  age-old  mysteries 
Your  dim  processions  come, — 
Christ  on  the  cross  and  Nero  in  the  mire, 
All  hopes  and  fears 

And  prides  of  Rome  and  Babylon  and  Tyre, 
And  the  world  fire 

Of  Helen's  smiles  and  Heloise's  tears; 
All  children  and  their  laughter,  and  the  eyes 
Of   long   dead   beauties,   lighting   with   their   gleams 
Some  Sultan's  dreams; 

And  for  our  pride  have  built  and  cast  away 
Empires  more  dead  to  memory  than  they. 

Out  on  you,  0  long  dead  and  passionless 
First  cause  of  all!     In  the  volcanic  stress 
Of  the  first  birth 
Of  ocean  and  of  earth 

What  wanton  dream  of  yours  builded  the  face 
Of  this  brown  beggar  eating  roasted  meat 
In  Beefsteak  Johnny's  Place? 
[11] 


O  Centuries 


What  children  laughed  and  died  that  these  might  run 

Bright  headed  in  the  sun 

On  high  uplands, 

Dew  on  their  feet  and  flowers  in  their  hands? 

Strange  web  upon  whose  shining  surface  lies 

High  heart  and  high  emprise, 

Riverside  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  and  ships 

With  the  sea  against  their  lips, 

The  warm  breath  of  the  city,  busses  fleet 

From  street  to  street, 

Buildings  high  as  heaven,  and  the  span 

Of  bridges,  pure  and  cold,  the  noblest  work  of  man; 

Railroads  belching  fire 

Around  the  earth,  crimson  against  the  night, 

And  silver  white 

Through  wide  sea  ways  ships  driving,  sails  unfurled, 

Or  strained  with  throb  of  wheel  and  hum  of  wire 

Bearing  from  light  to  light 

The  produce  of  a  world  to  feed  a  world, 

With  my  closed  eyes  I  see 
Long  fields,  gasping  and  thirsty  in  the  sun, 
And  men  who  work  in  groups  or  silently 
Move  down  the  rustling  corn  rows  one  by  one. 
Or  on  some  July  evening  see  again 
Green  pastures  whipped  with  rain — 
So  still  and  far! 
But  here  where  subways  are 
[12] 


O  Centuries 


And  crowds  of  tired  men  and  women  pour 

From  shop  to  shop  and  store  to  store, 

A  woman  whom  the  lips  of  children  kissed 

Trudges,  bad-tempered,  with  her  shopping  list! 

What  irony  did  your  cold  heart  bestir, 

0  Centuries,  when  first  you  dreamed  of  her? 

Life  holds  me  close.     I  only  dimly  see 

Gigantic  shapes  that  rise 

Against  far  skies, 

Shadows  of  little  things  grown  monstrously, 

Yet  dimly  feel 

Those  forces  fierce  and  few 

That  first  creation  knew 

And  are  upon  us  now  for  woe  or  weal. 

How  could  you  know  that  more  than  might  of  kings 

Such  little  things 

As  the  pipe  dream 

Of  wheels  revolving  in  expanding  steam, 

Born  of  the  dust  that  was  a  living  brain, 

Might  lift  again 

The  shadow  of  world  chaos  at  our  door, 

Or  that  the  scream 

Of  hungry  children  crying  in  their  pain 

Might  lay  that  shadow  in  the  dust  once  more? 

Oh,  first,  great  Cause,  what  silent  dreams  have  bound 
Your  eyes  on  those  still  nights  before  the  stars 
Crossed  the  last  bars 

[13] 


O  Centuries 


Of  being  and  began  their  timeless  round, 

And  earth  and  ocean,  deep  in  endless  deep, 

Aroused  from  sleep, 

And  the  first  passions  and  the  last  awoke 

And  stirred  quiescent  matter  till  it  felt  and  spoke? 

Did  you  dream  then  that  the  end  of  all  was  this — 

To  meet  and  kiss 

And  die  and  drift  apart  down  the  still  wind, 

Leaving  behind 

No  faintest  trace 

But  a  chance  trick  of  smile 

Or  line  of  brow  or  chin  that  lives  awhile 

In  some  child's  face? 

Or  was  all  end  to  make  some  perfect  thing, 

Or  peace  or  happiness,  who  knows? 

Or  a  baby's  hand,  or  a  starlit  night  in  spring, 

Or  the  petals  of  a  rose? 


ON  YOUR  BREAST  I  LIE 

ON  your  breast  I  lie, 
0  wind  of  the  night,  wind  of  death. 
My  pulse  beats  low  with  your  breath, 
And  strange  shadows  pass 
Wavering-footed  over  the  sodden  grass, 
And  strange  things  are  born  and  die, 
And  I 
Grow  still  and  aware  at  the  cool  suspense  of  your 

breath, 
Wind  of  the  night,  wind  of  death. 

I  who  was  not  afraid  at  the  touch 
Of  the  cool  hands  of  grief, 
Thinking  beyond  measure, 
Loving  too  much, 
Forgetting  my  self-belief 
I  have  lost  my  treasure. 

I  am  grown  afraid  with  the  fear  of  little  things, 
The  old  world-weakness  catches  in  my  breath, 
And  the  rush  of  your  wings, 

And  the  sting  of  your  pride  flung  fearless  in  my  face 
From  the  stars  and  the  farthermost  space 
[15] 


On  Your  Breast  I  Lie 


Wake  only  poor  discontent  and  the  voice  of  anguish 

loud 

In  my  heart  once  still  and  proud, 
Wind  of  the  night,  wind  of  death. 

Some  day  I  shall  rise  and  fling 

This  terror  out  of  my  heart, 

And  will  turn  apart 

And  sing 

For  my  own  pleasure  under  some  quiet  hill 

Where  the  air  is  still 

And  blue  violets  are, 

And  afar 

Blue  hills  cut  into  a  bluer  sky, 

And  the  pangs  of  men  pass  by 

And  my  soul  draws  near, 

And  then  perchance  if  I  please,  I  shall  climb  to  a 

star 

Or  pass  to  some  hidden  brook 
And  lie  and  look 
In  the  clear,  brown,  shining  pools,  and  sleep  in  the 

shade  of  a  tree 
As  it  pleases  me. 
And  it  will  be  all  one, 

For  I  shall  laugh  in  your  face  and  put  off  fear 
From  year  to  year, 
And  the  catch  in  my  breath 
And  the  chill  of  my  heart  will  be  gone, 
Oh,  wind  of  the  night,  wind  of  death. 
[16] 


SUNSET 

THE  flowers  have  faded,  every  one, 
The  leaves  are  dead. 
I  found  the  garden  stripped  of  bloom. 
The  soft-eyed  nymphs  attendant  on  the  sun 
Heap  the  flushed  rose  leaves  for  his  crimson  bed 
Low  in  the  west,  and  from  their  careless  fingers 
Caressed  with  purple  gloom, 
The  lilac  blossoms  trickle,  one  by  one. 


[17] 


MOOD 

YOU  are  singing  of  love,  but  how  can  you  love  to 
night 

When  the  wind  blows  cold  from  the  sea? 
Satyr-love,  ah  yes, 
Riotously 

In  the  wide  moonlight 
Opaque  and  white 
And  tangible  as  a  bridal  dress. 
Just  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  the  wild,  sweet  pain 
Were  I  never  to  see  your  face  again. 

You  are  singing  of  love.     Ah,  God,   what  do  you 

know 

Of  the  world-old  fire? 

Love  of  the  drawing  room  and  sick  desire, — 
Take  up  your  lute  and  go. 
Jove  comes  to  me  to-night  as  he  came  of  old 
In  a  flood  of  gold, 
And  the  wind  blows  cold 
With  a  hint  of  snow. 


[18] 


TO  K.  V. 

FRIEND,    from    the    womb    of    half-remembered 
things 

My  heart  turns  back  to  you 
Inevitably  as  that  April  blooms  anew 
After  the  passing  of  a  thousand  springs. 
Sure  as  the  sunlight  that  succeeds  the  rain, 
Peace  after  pain, 

Or  the  bee's  flight  to  seek  the  clover, 
Or  love  to  meet  the  lover, 
After  long  parting  we  should  meet  again, 
Nor  space  nor  time  avail  to  hold  apart 
Kinship  of  mind  and  heart. 

I  have  watched  you  sometimes  when  the  lamplight 

lies 

Across  your  brow  and  hair, 
And  the  swift  lights  and  shadows  in  your  eyes 
Change  unaware, 

And  gropingly  my  thought  has  tried  to  trace 
The  child  face  I  remember  in  your  face. 
But  that  unchanging  thing,  the  soul  of  you 
That  once  I  knew, 

Slips  back  again  to  its  accustomed  place, 
[19] 


To  K.  V. 

So  strange-familiar,  so  familiar-strange 

I  do  not  know  the  change, 

But  feel  that  sweet  fulfilment  that  one  knows 

When  the  first  rose 

Blossoms  again  in  June  beside  the  door, 

Opening  pale  petals  to  the  sun — 

The  sum  of  earth's  lost  beauty,  which  alone 

Perfection  lacked  before. 

I  have  no  gift  to  give  for  what  you  bring 

Rich  beyond  measuring, 

Yet  feel  no  shame 

To  take,  unworthy,  at  your  hands  that  name 

Of  friend,  most  sacred,  for  I  too  have  seen 

There  is  no  little  thing,  no  petty,  nothing  mean 

In  the  clear  light  of  faith  that  lies  between 

High  heart  and  heart. 

There  most  unworthiness  takes  something  on 

Of  beauty  from  the  ideal  it  leans  upon, 

Needing  no  justification.    Joy  the  prize, 

And  to  look  life  in  the  eyes. 


[20] 


LOSS 

INTO  the  dark  I  peer, 
The  dark  that  lies 
So  heavy  on  my  heart, 
Stretching  my  hands  to  tear  the  veil  apart. 
In   the  breathless  hush   I   hold   my  breath  to   hear, 
But  your  voice  is  dumb. 

And  silent,  out  of  the  void,  the  shadows  come, 
Shrouding  again  your  half  unveiled  eyes. 


[21] 


MASEFIELD 

AN    IMPRESSION 

IT'S  the  month  of  Mars,  the  war  god, 
And  the  hour's  the  hour  of  death, 
And  down  the  cobbled  street-way 
Conies  the  day's  last  shivering  breath. 
Across  the  narrow  street  end 
The  red  tide's  at  the  flood, 
And  against  the  crimson  sunset 
Stand  dark  house-eaves,  dripping  blood. 

But  hey,  and  ho,  for  a  land  of  daffodils, 

Of  a  smile  across  the  meadows  and  a  glory  on  the 

hills, 
Of  a  green  mist  in  the  willow  and  blue  violets  in  the 

fen, 
Where  the  song-sparrow's  a-twitter,  and  the  robin's 

back  again. 

It's  the  month  of  Mars,  the  war  god, 

And  the  day  is  on  the  wane. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset 

Fills  the  city's  heart  like  pain. 

[22] 


Masefield 

And  the  crowd  turns  up  to  meet  it 
Faces  pinched  and  white  that  seem 
Eager,  pensive,  strained,  expectant, 
Like  lost  faces  in  a  dream. 

Then  hey,  and  ho,  for  a  land  of  daffodils, 

For  a  smile  across  the  valley  and  a  glory  on  the  hills 

Where  the  smoke  of  distant  cities  fades  before  the 

sunset  gleam, 

Where  the  cares  and  sorrows  thronging, 
And  the  old,  unanswered  longing 
Fade  like  faces  in  a  dream, 

He  came  swinging  down  on  the  windy  side 
And  the  roll  of  the  sea  was  in  his  stride. 
He  was  brown  of  face  and  quiet-eyed 
One  would  judge  him  a  seaman  by  his  looks, 
And  yet  a  man  with  a  taste  for  books, 
Thoughtful  friends  and  quiet  hours, 
Country  roads  and  birds  and  flowers. 
And  as  he  came  through  the  quiet  street 
He  cast  one  eye  at  the  forward  moon, 
And  suiting  his  thought  to  a  measure  meet, 
He  sang  an  old  sea-faring  tune: 

"Good-by,  sweet  Mary  of  Plymouth. 
The  freshening  wind  blows  cold. 
We're  off  for  Valparaiso 
To  try  for  Spanish  gold. 

[23] 


Masefield 

"Then  heave  all  together! 

We're  off  from  Plymouth  Sound. 

Hark  to  the  music  of  the  jangling  chains! 

We're  off  and  outward  bound. 

"One  cheer  for  merry  England, 
And  one  for  our  empty  hold. 
We  won't  be  needing  ballast 
When  we've  got  the  Spanish  gold." 

Now  as  he  paused  and  lingered  at  the  corner 
As  though  in  doubt,  through  the  half-open  door 
Of  a  low  dwelling  where  a  noisy  crowd 
Of  children  wrangled,  came  a  clear,  sweet  voice, 
Divinely  fresh,  and  clear  and  very  young. 
I  saw  him  turn  and  listen,  and  the  babel 
Of  voices  hushed  a  moment.     Some  one  said, 
"It's  Lilias.     It's  the  song  she  made  herself." 
Then  a  pause  while  the  sweet  ringing  notes 
Poured  from  the  inner  gloom.     And  then  a  shout. 
"Ki  yi!    I'll  beat  you  all  down  to  the  sign 
Of  the  Blue  Heron."    And  the  noisy  crowd 
Swept  down  the  rosy  street  and  out  of  sight. 
The  voice  came  nearer.     Dust  rose  in  a  cloud 
Through  the  half   open  door,  the  swish  and  swing 
Of  the  hard  laboring  broom  rilled  in  the  pauses, 
Then  Lilias  herself  upon  the  step. 
Scarce  more  than  child  she  seemed,  and  sadly  white 
With  indoor  living;  neither  short  nor  tall, 
[24] 


Masefield 

With  shoulders  slightly  stooped.     Most  wonderful 
In  her  cheap  dress  and  gaudy  cotton  apron, 
And  underneath  the  bib,  a  heart  of  light 
That  freed  itself  in  song. 

"Listen,  little  children,  listen  while  I  tell  you, — 

There  are  other  children  happier  than  we. 

Children  of  the  air  that  walk  the  green  streets  of 

Heaven, 
Children  of  the  waves  that  dance  upon  the  silver  sea. 

"Children,  little  children,  see  the  white  gulls  flying. 
They,  I  think,  are  spirits  of  the  children  that  have 

gone. 

All  across  the  harbor  see  the  gray  waves  dying; 
The  sea  babies  are  dead,  and  the  sad  winds  moan, 

"Birds  of  the  white  wings, 
Take  me  away. 
The  wind  sings  in  the  bay. 
Hark  how  the  wind  sings! 
Birds  of  the  white  wings, 
Take  me  away." 

She  dropped  the  broom.    With  arms  outspread 
She  stood  beside  the  dingy  door, 
Lost  in  the  wonder  overhead, 
Deaf  to  the  city's  distant  roar. 

[25] 


Masefield 

The  street  is  for  the  moment  still. 

The  impatient  stamp  of  a  horse's  hoof 

Rings  on  the  cobbles.     To  and  fro 

The  eager  sunset  fairies  go 

Over  the  salty  scented  sea, 

Weaving  a  gorgeous  canopy 

Of  golden  warp  and  woof. 

"Hullo!"     The  charm  snapped.     Turning  frightened 

eyes 

She  saw  the  smiling  sailor,  hat  in  hand, 
Upon  the  step.    A  strangely  taking  face 
With  the  wide,  serious  eyes  and  frank,  sweet  smile. 
The  little  woman,  prematurely  wise, 
Looked  and  was  reassured,  and  smiled  in  turn. 
A  strange  thing,  such  a  smile.    A  friendship  born, 
Grown,  and  perfected  in  a  single  glance. 
A  rare  smile;  such  as  an  old  man  might  count 
Upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 

The  sunset  faded  and  the  night  came  on, 
And  on  the  step  before  the  dingy  door 
The  sun-burned  sailor  and  the  pale-faced  maid 
Sat  talking.    He  with  bared  head  thrown  well  back 
And  scanty,  forceful  gestures  of  a  man 
Who  holds  tight  reins  upon  a  mighty  soul, 
Told  of  the  things  that  he  had  seen  and  done 
In  many  lands  and  under  foreign  skies, 
On  seas  whose  utmost  ripple  laps  the  pole. 
And  she,  bent  forward,  chin  on  blue-veined  hand, 
[26] 


Masefield 

With  flushing  cheeks  and  eyes  alight  with  dreams, 
Hung  breathless  on  his  words. 

About  her  feet  the  vast,  eternal  tide 

Stormed  with  wild  laughter.     She  could  feel  the  roll 

Of  the  sea  beauty,  staggering  in  her  stride, 

Then  plunging  toward  the  ever-fading  goal. 

She  heard  the  cordage  creaking,  and  the  sea 
Hiss,  and  the  ship's  bells  ringing  out  the  hour, 
And  saw  the  wind-worn  vessel  suddenly 
Blossom  with  shining  whiteness  like  a  flower. 

She  saw  the   decks  scrubbed  clean  and   white  with 

sand, 

With  little  groups  of  sailors  here  and  there, 
And  heard  strange  talk  of  many  a  palmy  land, 
And  women  with  black  eyes  and  shadowy  hair. 

She  clutched  his  hand  and  shuddered  at  wild  tales 
Of  stormy  nights  spent  clinging  to  the  spars, 
Tossed  by  the  fury  of  unbridled  gales 
Halfway  between  the  ocean  and  the  stars; 

Tales  of  brave  deeds   and  mean,   of  sudden   death, 
Of  seekers  stricken  almost  at  the  goal; 
Of  the  sad  flickerings  of  the  failing  breath, 
And  tragedies  of  body  and  of  soul. 
[27] 


Masefield 

And  then  she  smiled,  hearing  of  woodland  ways 

Leading  among  the  everlasting  hills; 

Of    bird-songs,    brooks,    and    flowers,    and    summer 

days; 
Of  fields  of  fern  and  nodding  daffodils. 

Then  in  a  milder  vein  he  spoke  of  hours 
In  his  dim  chamber;  where  the  lamplight  ends 
A  row  of  cherished  books,  fragrant  as  flowers 
With  memories,  and  seen  through  a  blue  wave 
Of  pipe  smoke,  eager  faces,  earnest,  grave, 
A  group  of  chosen  friends, 

Raptly  she  sees,  forgetting  time  and  place, 
Before  her  eyes  the  pageant  of  her  dreams. 
And  fitfully  across  her  upturned  face 
The  light  of  the  dim  street  lamp  dimly  streams. 

The  night  moves  on,  the  raw  chill  air  grows  bold, 
The  lurid  sky  reflects  the  city's  light, 
Till,  seeing  that  she  shivers  with  the  cold, 
The  story-teller  kisses  her  good-night, 

And  strides  away  adown  the  gusty  street, 
A  moment  silent,  feeling  something  rise 
And  choke  his  breathing, — something  very  sweet, 
Remembering  her  patient,  grateful  eyes. 
[28] 


Mase field 

He  pauses  at  the  corner,  doubtfully, 
For  from  the  darkness  he  has  left  behind, 
A  strain  of  a  familiar  melody 
Comes  swirling  to  him  on  the  gusty  wind: 

"Children,  little  children,  listen  while  I  tell  you, 
There  are  wondrous   countries   that   we   shall   never 

know, 

Glory  and  adventure,  kindliness  and  daring, 
Out  beyond  the  ocean  where  the  bold  winds  blow. 

"Birds  of  the  white  wings, 
Take  me  away. 
The  wind  sings  in  the  bay. 
Hark  how  the  wind  sings! 
Birds  of  the  white  wings, 
Take  me  away" 


[29] 


WHEN  WINTER  STIRS 

WHEN  winter  stirs  and  wakes  and  lies  wide-eyed, 
Shaken  with  wonder  as  the  green  things  start 
Unbidden  from  his  breast,  I  sometimes  think 
How  love  once  grew  in  my  quiescent  heart! 


[30] 


THE  SWALLOW 

SEE  the  merry  swallow,  heart  of  mirth, 
Lilting,  tilting  on  the  swaying  bough, 

Hear  him  shaking  out  his  chatter  o'er  the  unawakened 
earth, 

Flitting  now. 

Who  can  tell  his  meaning?     Just  a  happy  heart  con 
tent 

In  the  blue-swept  firmament? 

Neither  ecstasy  nor  sorrow 

Haunts  his  accents  wild. 

Just  a  careless  chatte- 

Like  a  child. 

See  the  little  mate  upon  her  nest 

Where  the  flickering  shadow  comes  to  rest, 

Hear   the   flow   of   cheery   crooning  from  his   perch 

above 

Full  of  tenderness  and  love. 
Where's  the  merry  fellow  seen  but  yesterday 
Flaunting  through  the  heavens  his  brave  array? 
Who  has  taught  him  in  the  night  hours  long 
That  strange  new  sweetness  in  his  song? 

[31] 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

AIRY- WINGED  fancy,  where  art  thou  flying 
O'er  the  mown  fields  where  the  daisies  are  dying? 
Where  dost  thou  roam? 
Where, 

In  the  wide  regions  of  air, 
Lieth  thy  home? 

Drunk  with  the  breath  of  the  hay 
I  ponder  thy  flutter  and  sway. 
Airy-winged  sprite  of  an  hour, 
Dream  of  a  flower, 
Whither  away? 

Spirit  a-tilt  on  the  rose  drooping  there, 

Dead  in  the  beauty  of  morn  were  it  never  so  fair, 

A  breath,  and  thou  fleest. 

Art  thou  the  soul  of  the  flower  released, 

Or  the  voice  of  its  prayer? 

Spirit  of  light  and  of  motion, 
Linger  awhile. 

Fain  would  I  tell  thee  this  notion 
As  fleeting  as  thou; 

[32] 


To  a  Butterfly 


That  when  God  made  thee,  I  think  it  was  not  of  a 

smile ! 
See  how  thou  wanderest,  fitful  as  thought  through  the 

years, 

Bringing  me  now 
Fancies  too  dainty  for  words,  too  tender  for  tears. 

Spirit  of  light,  thou  hast  fled 

Vaguely  away 

Over  the  buttercup  bed 

Where  the  golden  cups  shed 

A  reflection  of  day. 

Where  hast  thou  gone  on  thy  wandering,  wavering 

wings? 

Where  the  blue  bell  swings? 
Back  to  thy  palace  of  white 
In  a  lily's  heart? 
Yet  still  in  my  fancy  I  see  thee,  the  fluttering  thing 

of  delight 
That  thou  art. 


[33] 


A  LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY 

HAVE  you  ever  seen  a  lily,  a  slender,  virgin  lily, 
Growing  in  the  valley   where  the  brook  runs 

cool, 

Leaning  to  the  shallows  where  the  ripples  linger  stilly, 
Then    purl    and    pass    through    stirring    grass    and 
thoughtful,  moss-green  pool? 

If  you  have  not,  then  you  know  not  shyest  beauty, 

frailest  splendor. 
In   her  modest  maiden   whiteness   trembling   by   the 

singing  stream 
She  has  caught  the  wistful  prettiness  of  things  serene 

and  tender 
That   children   know   whose   fancies   grow   and   fade 

from  dream  to  dream. 

Go  and  seek  her;  you  will  find  her  where  the  water 

lingers  stilly 
Ere  it  wanders  to  the  river,  silver  gleaming,  faint  and 

far. 
And  you'll  know  that  earth  and  heaven  were  created 

that  a  lily 
Might  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  there  where  shine 

and  shadows  are. 

[34] 


POUGHKEEPSIE 

Poughkeepsie  in  the  springtime  when  the  apple 
trees  are  blooming 
And  the  lilacs  are  in  blossom  and  white  showers  of 

petals  fall! 

All  the  gardens  foam  with  blossom, 
Apple,  peach  and  cherry  blossom, 
Riotous,  unbridled  blossom 
Overflowing  every  wall. 

In  winter  time  your  tawdry  streets  are  dull  and  drab 

and  dreary, 
Aswirl  with  winds  that  pirouette  like  dancers  on  a 

floor, 
But  some  golden  day  in  springtime  comes  the  robin's 

signal  cheery 
And   an   army   of  gay  blossoms   bursts  from  every 

garden  door. 

Such  a  carnival  they  celebrate  you  cannot  hold  or 

bind  them 
Though  you  wall  them  in  with  masonry  and  make 

the  prison  tall. 

[35] 


Poughkeepsie 


Where'er  you  go,  where'er  you  go  you're  always  sure 

to  find  them, 
A  merry  mocking  multitude  o'erhanging  every  wall. 

Where'er  you  go  they  follow  you  with  perfume,  flung 

in  showers, 
And  petals  fallen  on  your  path,  like  heaps  of  fragrant 

snow, 
And   you   dream   you    are    in    fairyland   and    laugh 

among  the  flowers, 
At  the  earth  that  you  deserted  half  a  hundred  years 

ago. 

Oh  Poughkeepsie  in  the  springtime  when  the  apple 

trees  are  blooming, 
And  the  lilacs  are  in  blossom  and  white  showers  of 

petals  fall! 

All  the  gardens  foam  with  blossom. 
Apple,  peach  and  cherry  blossom, 
Riotous,  unbridled  blossom 
Overflowing  every  wall. 


[36] 


MEETING 

MOONLIGHT  on  the  white  breast  of  the  sea, 
Sunlight  on  the  white  brow  of  the  hill. 
I  stand  upon  the  dim  shores  silently 
And  all  the  world  is  still. 

Stars  upon  the  forehead  of  the  night, 

Stars  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

And  high  between  them,  gowned  in  pearly  white, 

A  cloud  floats  wondrously. 

Death  within  the  ocean  at  my  feet, 
Life  within  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
I  stand  upon  the  moment  when  they  meet 
And  all  eternity  is  still. 


[37] 


PORTLAND  HARBOR 

OH,  the  salt  is  in  my  nostrils  and  the  wind  is  in 
my  hair, 
And  the  eager  capes  reach  out  to  grasp  the  sea  on 

either  hand.          . 
There's  the  city  out  behind  me,  but  I'm  better  here 

than  there, 
For  the  ocean  ships,  the  sailing  ships  come  beating  in 

to  Portland, 

The  grim  and  white-toothed  ocean  ships, 
The  fleeting,  gray-winged  sailing  ships, 
The  gaunt  and  battered  whaling  ships 
Come  beating  in  to  land. 

The  buoy  out  there  is  ringing,  tossing  in  the  waves 

and  singing 
An  ancient  song  of  stormy  nights  and  battered,  sunken 

hulls, 
A  clanging  note  across  the  waves  to  warn  the  ships  of 

Portland, 

For  the  ocean  ships,  the  sailing  ships, 
The  gaunt  and  battered  whaling  ships 
Come  beating  in  to  Portland  beneath  the  circling 

gulls. 

[38] 


Portland  Harbor 


There's  a  lighthouse  on  the  rocky  ledge  before  the 

gates  of  Portland, 
A  lighthouse   on  the  jagged  reef  gnawed  by  white 

fangs  of  foam, 
Twin  blinking  eyes  that  search  the  dark  to  find  the 

ships  of  Portland, 
The  ocean  ships,  the  sailing  ships, 
The  gaunt  and  battered  whaling  ships, 
The   weary   ships  of  Portland   that  come  careening 

home. 

Oh,  the  salt  is  in  my  nostrils  and  the  sun  is  on  my 

hair, 
And  the  angry  winds  are  buffeting  the  capes  on  either 

hand. 
I   have  left  the   streets  behind  me.     Oh,   I'm  better 

here  than  there, 
For  the  ocean  ships,  the  sailing  ships  come  beating  in 

to  Portland, 

The  grim  and  white-toothed  ocean  ships, 
The  fleeting  gray-winged  sailing  ships, 
The  gaunt  and  battered  whaling  ships 
Come  beating  in  to  land. 


[39] 


RETURN 

I   STOOD  upon  the  sands  beside  the  sea, 
The  waves  went  from  me,  laughing  on  the 

bar, 

Then,  like  naughty  children, 
Staggering  back  across  the  yellow  sands 
Repentantly, 

Bearing  in  their  outstretched  hands 
The  evening  star, 
The  waves  came  back  to  me. 


I  stood  within  the  crowded  market  place 
And  joy  went  from  me  in  a  flood  of  song, 
When  lo!  through  all  the  mart 
A  miracle!    for   echoed, — magnified  in  every 

face 
The  joy  poured  back  into  my  heart. 

I  stood  within  the  garden  in  the  dawn 
And  saw  with  bated  breath 
The  failing  flicker  of  the  last  lone  star 
Slain  by  the  shafts  of  light, 
[40] 


Return 


And  near  at  hand  pathetically  white 

A  young  rose  lying  in  the  arms  of  Death, 

Then  smiled,  remembering 

How  the  waves  came  again  across  the  bar. 


[41] 


TO  THE  MUSE 

I  HAVE  ever  praised  thy  name,  O  Singer  of  Songs. 
In  the  hush  of  the  blinding  dawn  in  my  barefoot 

days, 

Knee-deep  in  the  fields  dew-cool  where  the  robin  sings 
And  the  daisy  wakes, 
And  the  swallow,  mad  with  the  morning,  swoops  and 

swings, 

Dropping  bright  rain  of  rippling  song  and  shakes 
Joy  from  his  wings, 

Touched  in  my  dumb  child  soul  and  set  apart 
In  the  lonely  ways, 
Aching  and  tense 
Knowing  thy  presence, 
In  my  inarticulate  heart 
I  have  sung  thy  praise. 

But  thou  with  gracious  head  mist-veiled  and  bent 
Hast  turned  as  from  an  unworthy  instrument. 

I  have  ever  sung  thy  praise,  0  Singer  of  Songs. 
In  the  foolish  pride  of  my  youth  in  the  heat  of  noon 
When  the  roses  scented  the  morning,  trembling  sweet, 
And  the  buttercups  gilded  my  feet, 

[42] 


To  the  Muse 


And  the  bumblebees  booming  amid  the  clover 

Said  to  the  brooding  birds  "The  June  is  over"; 

And  close  on  the  heels  of  June 

The  hot  hay  winds  from  the  meadows  made  reply 

With  a  breath  of  July, 

Proud  of  my  towering  strength, 

Feeling  at  length 

Sure  of  my  wings, 

Apart  in  the  lonely  ways, 

Secure  in  a  sense  of  the  beauty  of  things 

With  my  uncouth  tongue  I  have  sung  thy  praise. 

But  thou  disdainfully  thy  head  hast  bent 
And  turned  as  from  an  unworthy  instrument. 

Bewildered  with  grief,  weary  into  the  night 
Down  the  long  roads  of  darkness  I  have  strayed, 
Hearing  no  sound  although  to  left  and  right 
In  the  writhing  trees  the  battling  storm  wind  swayed, 
Blind  though  the  north  was  kindled  with  the  light 
Of  flashing  swords  in  tournament  arrayed, 
And  underneath  the  arching  ferns  there  might  be  seen 
Fire-flies  like  fairy  lamps  wandering  through  the  green 
In  vague,  uncertain  flight, 
Miserable  with  pain, 

Sick  with  uneasy  thoughts,  regrettings  vain, 
Lost  and  afraid, 

I  knew  nor  sight  nor  sound  when  lo!  again 
Upon  my  throbbing  senses,  drawn  and  tense, 
[43] 


To  the  Muse 


Stole  a  sweet  comforting  without  a  name 

As  of  one  who  came 

And  touched  with  gentle  hands  of  perfect  art 

The  dumb  strings  of  my  heart, 

Waking  them  into  speech,  misery's  dull  release, 

Waking  them  into  peace, 

Life  and  content, 

As  though,  O  hidden  Singer,  thou  hadst  leant 
An  instant  o'er  thine  instrument. 

0  Singer  of  Songs,  eternal,  beyond  praise 

Or  fame, 

In  the  chill  winter  of  the  last  lone  days 

My  tongue  shall  speak  thy  name, 

Great  beyond  greatness,  fairer  than  all  art, 

Knowing  that  life  has  given  me  too  much 

That  for  a  breath  the  lutestrings  of  my  heart 

Have  answered  to  thy  touch, 

That  for  one  flying  hour  thy  breath  has  stirred 

To  melody  unheard 

This  heart  else  dumb,  and  that  thy  hand  has  leant 

For  one  brief,  perfect  hour  upon  thine  instrument. 


[44] 


TO  A  CHILD  THAT  DIED  AT  BIRTH 

SWEET  be  thy  sleep,  oh!  thou  who  like  a  dream 
Camest  in  the  night. 

Thy  soul,  long  used  to  Paradise,  too  frail 
To  bear  the  light. 

We  held  thee  all  too  close;  we  did  not  know 
Dreams  are  too  frail  to  press, 
And  wakened  shivering  in  the  cold  gray  dawn 
To  loneliness. 


[45] 


IT'S  BETTER  TO  BREAK  AWAY 

OH,  it's  better  to  break  away 
When  the  heart  is  dull, 
Cleanly  and  clearly  away. 
But  some  day,  some  day 
Life  will  come  back  to  the  full, 
Love  will  come  back  to  the  full 
Some  day. 

And  I  will  come  back  to  you 

Over  the  sea, 

And  your  hands  shall  welcome  me, 

And  perhaps  your  kisses  too, 

But  your  eyes  will  look  away. 

Ah,  sweetheart,  sweetheart, 

If  you  but  knew, 

Love  has  come  home  to  stay 

To-day. 


[46] 


A  SONG 

NO  bud  more  swift  to  greet  the  spring, 
No  bee  to  suck  the  clover, 
No  lark  to  rise  on  morning  wing 
Than  I  to  meet  my  lover. 

For  though  the  lark's  with  rapture  mad 
And  earth's  blithe  soul  flows  over, 
There  is  no  other  heart  as  glad 
As  mine  that  greets  my  lover. 


[47] 


THE  MERRY  MONTH  OF  MAY 

I  CAME  upon  a  lilac  spray 
A-bending  and  a-bowing 
Upon  the  wind  of  merry  May. 
The  sun  smiled  broadly  in  the  sky, 
And  how  I  laughed  as  I  passed  by, 
For  it  was  such  a  merry  way 
The  lilac  had  of  bowing. 

Through  shady  vales  I  walked  along 
And  heard  a  bluebird  singing, 

And  paused  awhile  to  hear  his  song. 
The  sun  paused,  too,  in  sympathy, 
And  deigned  to  laugh  awhile  with  me, 

For  it  \  as  such  a  merry  song 
The  bluebird  was  a-singing. 

I  reveled  in  long,  golden  days 
When  May  was  in  the  hedges, 

And  earth  a-tune  with  thrush's  lays. 
And  as  for  us — the  sun  and  I — 
We  held  our  breath  and  tiptoed  by, 

Lest  we  profane  the  sacred  ways 
Of  Maytime  in  the  hedges. 
[48] 


The  Merry  Month  of  May 


Oh!  those  were  golden  hours  and  free. 

All  in  the  merry  Maytime! 
Then  brooklets  gurgled  merrily, 

And  all  the  Springtime's  treasured  yields, 

And  all  the  lore  of  woods  and  fields 
Were  open  as  a  book  to  me 

All  through  the  merry  Maytime. 


[49] 


THE  SONG  OF  BALDER 

THERE  came  in  the  floodtime  of  the  year 
Balder  frofii  the  shades, 
And  lifting  up  his  eyes  e'en  to  the  heavens 
He  touched  his  harp  and  sang. 

"Behold  the  stars  that  rock  upon  their  course, 

Beating  through  clouds  like  ships 

That  breast  the  maddened  fury  of  the  sea, 

And  then  like  candles  in  the  wind 

Before  the  tempest  of  onrushing  light 

Flicker  and  die. 

Now  the  chill  breathing  earth 

Shivers  and  blows  across  the  gusty  fields, 

And  icy  fingers 

Turn  back  the  tattered  pages  of  the  night, 

And  lo!  within  the  portals  of  the  east 

See  the  frail  ghost  of  Freya  to  her  murmurous 

lips 
Pressing  the  rose  of  dawn, 

"Below  my  feet  a  river  curls 

Silently  slipping  through  far  reaching  fields, 

A  golden  river  pensioned  of  the  sun. 

Yet  lift  your  eyes 

[50] 


The  Song  of  Balder 


You  may  not  see  its  source, 

Nor  I,  nor  any  man, 

But  if  we  follow  back  along  its  banks, 

Touched  with  a  veil  of  silver  mist  that  clings 

Like  dim  forgetfulness  on  buried   years. 

See  the  wide  stream  of  glory  and  of  fame 

That  breathes  of  god-like  men 

Who  died  for  Woden. 

Yea,  for  Woden  and  their  father's  gods 

And  recked  the  world  well  lost 

'Ghosts,'  ye  cry, 

Only  ghosts, 

Cold  breaths  of  sea  damp  wandering  from  the 

night, 
No  more. 

And  strong  men  fought  and  bled, 
Suffered  and  sorrowed  more  than  human  strength 
All  for  a  phantom  god, 
And  with  their  sacrifice  of  blood  and  pain 
And  stern,  heroic  dust 
Built  up  a  temple — to  the  empty  air. 
Oh!  mighty  Love  that  moves  behind  the  world, 
Oh!  mighty  Love  that  moves  men's  hearts  to  tears, 
They  in  their  blindness  looked  upon  Thy  face. 

"There  came  a  Shepherd  into  Galilee 
And  Woden  fell. 

Yea,  Woden  fell  because  mankind  had  found 
A  higher  step  toward  God — as  Woden  was 
[51] 


The  Song  of  Balder 


In  days  forgotten. 

Oh!  mighty  Love  that  moves  behind  the  world, 

Oh!    mighty  Love   that   moves   men's   hearts   to 

tears, 

Thou  in  Thy  wisdom  taught  Thyself  to  men 
Wisely  to  their  needs. 

"Now  the  soft  ev'ning  opens  like  a  rose 

Upon  the  hills, 

And  shadows  fall  like  petals  from  the  clouds 

Purple  as  heather, 

And  still  below  the  dim  horizon's  edge 

Spear'd  troops  are  marching, 

Long,  golden  spear-shafts  glinting  in  the  sun, 

And  banners  trailed  in  crimson. 

"All's  in  the  making  as  the  evening  is; 

Time's  in  his  youth. 

Ye  paint  Death  and  Time  all  in  one  image. 

Crown  ye  Death  with  Rosemary, 

Wash  his  feet  in  the  rivers  of  forgetfulness, 

Crown  ye  Time  with  rose-buds, 

Strew  the  young  years  underneath  his  feet. 

All's  in  the  making, 

And  all  our  praisings  and  our  scorns 

Are  but  the  faint  beginnings  of  a  creed. 

We  cannot  see  the  end. 

"Now  is   the  breathing  space   'twixt   light   and 
dark, 

[52] 


The  Song  of  Balder 


When  spirits  of  dead  flowers  come  a-tiptoe 

To  light  the  candles  at  the  shrine  of  night, 

And  I  am  only  a  poor  heathen  god 

Forever  unbelieved. 

Yet  must  I  speak. 

Satisfy  the  cravings  of  your  hearts, 

Oh,  ye  who  in  the  nightime  faint  beneath 

The  beauty  of  the  stars. 

And  find  ye  to  your  need 

A  god,  oh,  vagrant  hearted! 

Worship  at  the  shrine  that  seemeth  highest, 

And  be  it  War  or  Peace  or  mightiness, 

Or  gentleness  or  laughter  or  the  light 

Of  beauty  in  the  eyes  of  her  you  love, 

Or  innocence  or  knowledge  or  the  strength 

Of  men  or  little  children,  or  the  shade 

That  lies  across  the  meadows  when  the  spring 

Plants  violets  there, 

Ye  still  shall  worship  truth, 

For  every  god  and  every  creed 

That  shines  in  the  still  eyes  of  lonely  men, 

And  every  old  belief  that  wrings  the  heart 

To  ecstasy,  and  every  new 

That  shakes   the   soul   with   darkness   and   with 

doubt 

Are  fleeting  shadows  of  the  living  God, 
The  Power  that  moves  behind  the  Universe, 
The  Love  that  moves  men's  hearts  to  tears." 
[53] 


The  Song  of  Balder 


Night's    trailing    garment    brushed    across    the 

grass, 

And  the  soft  shadows 

Melted  and  mingled  blotting  earth  and  sky, 
And  like  a  shadow  Balder  passed  again 
Into  the  shades. 


[54] 


LONELINESS 

SOMETIMES  at  night 
I  feel  your  arms  around  me  and  the  old 
Still  pain  of  unresponsiveness, 
The  bitter  passion  of  your  lips  that  press 
On  lips  so  cold 
And  passionless; 
See  the  hard  knowledge  grow 
To  terror  in  your  eyes,  the  broken  pride 
Dead  that  upheld  you  so, — 
Ah,  God,  could  I  have  died! 

I  could  have  loved  you,  but  for  that  and  this; 

Had  you  been  so  and  so, 

Or  spoken  thus,  or  not,  or  were  your  kiss 

More  passionate,  or  less,  how  could  I  know? 

Or  you  who  could  not  guess 

Close  in  your  arms  my  utter  loneliness? 


[55] 


MADCAP  APRIL 

MADCAP  April's  running  wild. 
By  the  brown  brook  I  have  caught  her 
Trailing  white  feet  in  the  water, 
Gleeful  as  a  naughty  child. 

In  the  tree  tops  I  have  seen 

April  of  the  laughing  eyes 

Where  the  bare,  cold  boughs  have  been, 

Laughing  at  a  dream  of  green 

Born  of  sheer  surprise. 

Dainty  crimson  tree  tops  flare 

To  a  sky  of  perfect  blue; 

Coral  branches  carven  fair 

Swaying  in  the  waves  of  air 

As  April  bends 

The  boughs  and  rends 

The  web  and  lets  the  heavens  through. 

Madcap  April's  dancing  by, 
Her  bright  hair  of  silver  gold 
Trails  behind  her  through  the  sky, 
Glorious  fold  on  fold. 
[56] 


Madcap  April 


And  loosened  in  her  flight  drop  down 
Dandelions  from  her  crown. 

Silver  April,  loved  and  feared, 
For  thy  pranks  the  more  endeared, 
Wilt  thou  never  venture  down? 
With  a  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
See,  she  bends  in  answer  sly, 
Tweaking  the  grim  mountain's  beard, 
Laughing  at  his  mighty  frown. 
And  the  skies  smile  and  reprove  her, 
And  the  hearts  of  poets  love  her, 
Laughing  loud  as  they  discover 
Their  own  youth  in  this  sweet  rover 
With  the  laughter  of  a  child. 
April,  running  wild. 


[57] 


RECOMPENSE 

WHAT  was  it  that  she  told  me  yestereve 
Slipping  the  troth-ring  back  into  my  hand? 
She  did  not  love  me, — dared  not  to  deceive, — 
My  true  friend  ever — could  I  understand? 
And  bending  in  the  old,  confiding  way 
She  sighed,  "Love  comes  not  at  the  call  again." 
And  wept  to  bring  me  trouble, — but  to-day 
I  do  not  feel  the  pain. 

For  I  have  drunk  of  Lethe  in  the  night, — 

Star  waters,  crystal  white, — 

And  I  have  bathed  my  hands  in  early  dew, 

Beginning  life  anew; 

And  laid  my  dead  love  by, 

Swathed  in  haughty  cerements  of  dead  dreams, 

In  a  dim  place  lit  by  the  voice  of  streams 

And  guarded  by  the  frail  shades  of  light  hours 

In  a  low  grave  of  flowers. 


[58] 


LAKE  ST.  SACRAMENT 

I'VE  come  to-day 
A  long,  long  way 
From  Lake  St.  Sacrament. 

Before  my  eyes 

The  village  lies 

Beneath  the  waning  crimson  skies; 

On  either  hand 

The  corn  shocks  stand — 

The  touseled  sentinels  of  a  forgotten  land. 

Across  the  hills 
The  whip-poor-wills 
Fill  the  young  dusk  with  mournful  cry, 
And  from  stone  walls 
The  cricket  calls 

And  swooping  black  bats,  squeaking,  circle 
swiftly  by. 

The  bright  clouds  swoon 

And  vanish  soon, 

And  the  bright  cup  of  the  new  moon 

Tilted  anew 

[59] 


Lake  St.  Sacrament 


In  hands  of  blue 

Baptizes  the  still-breathing  earth  with  holy 
dew. 

Weary  I  creep 

Away  to  sleep 

Among  the  corn  shocks,  lonely,  spent. 

I've  come  to-day 

A  long,  long  way 

From  Lake  St.  Sacrament. 

Above  my.  head 
The  boughs  have  spread 
Their  canopy  of  gold  and  red, 
And  on  my  path 
Like  smoldering  wrath 

The  year  has   left  its  brown  and  crimson 
aftermath. 

Late  berries  wink 
Upon  the  brink 

Of  every  crystal  flowing  stream, 
And  in  green  dells 
The  far  cow  bells 

Fill  with  a  human  note  these  fairy  hills  of 
dream. 

Once  more  the  air 
Turns  back  my  hair, 
[60] 


Lake  St.  Sacrament 


And  stirs  the  woods  and  lingers  there. 
And  over  all 
The  sly  nut's  fall 

Is  heard,  and  squirrels  scampering  to  their 
carnival. 

Aroused  from  sleep 
The  glad  waves  leap 
From  contemplative  depths  beneath, 
And  purple  blue 
Across  the  view 

The  wide  lake  laughs  and  shows  the  white 
ness  of  its  teeth. 

I  hear  through  all 
The  crow's  hoarse  call 
Mellowly  through  rich  distance  fall, 
And  pause  to  eat 
Where  two  brooks  meet, 
And  laughing,  hold  a  furtive  converse,  gay 
and  sweet. 

Now  through  my  dreams 
The  moonlight  streams 
Across  the  lake  in  wavering  line, 
And  from  the  hills 
The  night  wind  fills 

My  heart  with  homely  scents  of  balsam  and 
of  pine. 

[61] 


Lake  St.  Sacrament 


I  seem  to  feel 
The  slender  keel 

Beneath  me  tip  and  turn  and  reel, 
As  on  dark  tides. 
Past  grim  cliff  sides 

My    frail    canoe,    tip-tilted    like    a    flower, 
glides. 

I  seem  to  see 

How  daintily 

The  fairy  hills  and  waves  are  blent — 

I've  come  to-day 

A  long,  long  way 

From  Lake  St.  Sacrament. 


[62] 


A  WINTER  SUNSET 

I   WONDER  if  those  dim,  calm  sunset  skies 
Are  not  the  reflex  of  some  paradise, 
That  slim,  white,  feathered  cloud  an  angel's  wing, 
That  breathless  hush  an  angel  listening. 


[63] 


BEAUTY  OF  EARTH 

ON  the  cliff  edge  over  the  tumbled  sea 
I  and  the  wind  and  you, 

And  you  were  crowned  with  a  crown  of  gold, 
And  the  sea  was  blue. 

Your  shoulder  touched  my  arm,  and  the  wind 
Came  from  some  far  off  place 
And  blew  your  hair  from  its  fastenings 
Across  my  face. 

I  was  sick  for  the  kingdoms  of  the  moon, 
But  the  beauty  of  earth  sufficed. 
I  will  be  pagan  all  my  days 
And  forswear  the  Christ. 


[64] 


DANDELIONS 

THE  sky  is  blue  beyond  the  tower; 
Across  the  dandelion  fields 
The  wind  is  telling  the  hour, 
Playfully  blowing  the  tufted  seeds 
From  each  nodding  flower. 

See  how  they  dance  as  the  wind  skips  by 

Jauntily  chucking  them  under  the  chin 

While  the  grave  sun  winks  his  languid  eye 

With  a  cheerful  grin. 

And  tossed  with  elfish  glee  on  high 

White  puffs  of  down  are  drifting  through  the  sky. 


[65] 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

THE  little  house  where  I  live  is  built  against  the 
sky 

Among  the  friendly  chimney  pots  up  a  creaking  stair, 
It's  like  the  road  to  heaven  that  is  perilous  and  high, 
But  the  lamp  is  always  lighted  and  the  door  stands 
open  there. 

The  little  house  where  I  live,  it  is  so  small  and  low 
I  think  it  is  a  house  of  cards  built  on  a  whimsy  frame. 
Sometimes  I  want  to  pet  it  like  a  kitten  that  I  know, 
And  I  love  it  with  a  laughing  love  that's  like  a  little 
flame. 


[66] 


TO  RUPERT  BROOKE 

LAST  of  the  troubadours,  whose  wind  swept  lute 
Lies  still  and  mute 
On  Syros'  sea-washed  isle, 
Where  mile  on  mile 
The  blue  ^gean  sea  untroubled  lies, 
Sunset,  sunrise 
Lean  on  your  quiet  breast 
And  wake  no  laughter  in  your  dim,  unseeing  eyes. 

As  children,  with  their  mother  stricken  dead 

Swift  and  alone,  run  fearless  to  her  bed, 

Confident  of  the  warm,  awaiting  arms, 

These  things  you  loved  creep  to  you  undismayed, 

Stars  and  the  sun  and  storms. 

But  we  who  have  seen  death,  shaken  and  afraid, 

Turn  from  your  peace  with  heart's  uncomforted. 

And  yet 

How  should  we  dream  you  ever  could  forget 
Those  winds  you  loved,  and  every  cherished  thing, 
Young  grass  and  spring, 
And  the  blue  heaven's  laughter  and  the  stars, 
And  men  and  love  and  wars; 
[67] 


To  Rupert  Brooke 


The  high  heart's  courage,  truth,  and  her  fair  fame, 
And  the  music  of  her  name, 
England  your  best  beloved. 

I  think  that  those  are  wisest  who  still  know 

Your  breath  upon  their  brow, 

Your  youth  in  earth's  young  beauty,  the  glad  look  of 

you 

When  spring  wells  up  anew, 

Your  voice  upon  the  brooks  and  winds  and  trees, 
And  children's  voices  and  the  laugh  of  men, 
And  women's  skirts  rustling,  and  songs  and  seas 
Bring  back  your  voice  again 
That  was  a  part  of  these. 
Love  dies  not  but  abides  from  age  to  age 
Our  human  heritage, 

And  your  great  love  that  was  so  proud  and  free 
Is  immortality. 

So  we  who  love  you  find  our  peace  in  this, 
Death  lies  not  where  love  is. 

There  was  a  life  that  long  beside  mine  own 

Lived  as  mine  own  and  not  apart  from  me. 

Dying,  my  soul  is  richer  for  that  soul, 

My  life  shall  be 

The  purer  for  that  death, 

And  round  about  my  ways 

Love  and  the  memory  of  completed  days 

Winds  like  a  living  breath. 

[68] 


To  Rupert  Brooke 


So  you  who  had  such  store  of  love  to  give 

Among  earth's  greatest,  you  have  freely  given 

Love  and  the  seal  of  love,  your  life,  and  even 

All  that  life  means  and  is  and  was  to  you, 

The  will  to  live, 

And  the  little  things  men  feel  and  think  and  do, 

Glad  for  her  sake  that  was  your  best  beloved,  England, 

Unknowing  that  your  Splendid  Heart  could  raise 

Above  the  bitterness  of  darkened  days 

Her  heart  as  high  as  heaven. 

Ah !  God,  could  I  have  stood  beside  you  there 

Playing  man's  greatest  part  before  the  years 

Blot  with  inevitable  night  the  sun, 

And  the  last  echoes  of  our  smiles  and  tears 

Drift  down  the  windless  darkness,  one  by  one, 

For  I  have  held  it  to  be  best  of  all, 

Man's  supreme  right 

And  highest  pride, 

To  see  the  sum  of  life,  the  sweet  and  gall, 

The  thrilling  power,  and  to  turn  aside 

For  love,  out  of  the  sunlight  and  the  day 

Into  the  harder  way, 

Into  the  night. 

To  me,  alas,  denied. 

But  I  shall  find  some  spot  remote  and  strange 
From  the  swift  whirl  and  change 
Of  temporal  things, 

[69] 


To  Rupert  Brooke 


Some  quiet  corner  of  my  heart  where  clings 

Eternally 

The  memory  of  you, 

And  there,   perchance,  musing  upon  some   night   in 

spring, 

A  warm,  damp  wind  will  bring 
Across  dark,  heaving  leaves  of  purple  sea 
A  breath  of  the  blue  Mediterranean  space, 
And  in  the  twilight  of  that  place 
Will  hover  a  still  light  of  fire  and  dew 
Twin  born  of  earth  and  heaven,  and  in  that  hour 
Wild  and  elusive  as  the  pale  moon-flower 
That  dies  where  light  and  shadow  curve  and  break 
Along  the  margin  of  an  inland  lake; 
But  I  shall  understand, 

And  in  that  time,  perchance,  I  shall  have  power 
To  lift  the  torch  that  from  your  failing  hand 
Slipped  like  a  star  out  of  the  weary  sky 
When  daylight  creeps  on  darkness,  and  to  speak 
Those  things  you  might  have  spoken  since  that  hour 
When  life  and  death  upon  your  pallid  cheek 
Took  alternate  stand, 

In  wavering  tide  of  battle  passed,  repassed, 
Till  in  the  weary  dawn  your  soul  at  last 
Saw  the  still  sunrise  on  the  dim,  Lethean  strand. 
Perchance  I  shall  not  play  too  mean  a  part 
If  to  the  mighty  summons  of  your  heart 
My  heart  is  true, 

And  if  to  future  lives  I  shall  pass  on 
[70] 


To  Rupert  Brooke 


When  I  am  gone 

The  torch  I  had  of  you. 

Stilled  is  the  lute,  0  Master,  hushed  the  song. 

But  in  the  twilight  hour,  the  hour  of  sleep, 

Come  all  these  little  things  you  loved  and  creep 

Near  to  your  quiet  breast, 

Hoping  that  as  children  hope  for  the  light  that  lies 

In  the  mother  eyes. 

Murmurous  evenings  break  upon  your  rest 

And  winds  that  laugh  and  weep, 

Bird  notes  and  the  light  step  of  the  spring 

Passing  and  whispering, 

And  the  voice  of  ocean  calling  to  your  hill 

Yet  you  lie  so  still. 

But  somewhere  where  the  winds  of  heaven  have  birth 

In  some  far  corner  of  the  earth 

Lone  sea-caves  in  their  purple  depths  prolong 

The  echoes  of  your  song. 

Somewhere  in  earth  or  heaven  still  there  lies 

The  warm,  glad  look,  the  smile  of  your  immortal  eyes. 


[71] 


STAR  GOSSIP 

TV/TY  window's  far  above  the  place 
J.T  A  Where  voices  hum  and  traffic  jars, 
And  sometimes  when  it's  very  dark 
I  sit  and  gossip  with  the  stars. 

On  cloudy  nights  I'm  friendly  with 
The  window  lights  across  the  way, 

But  when  it's  dark  I  lean  far  out 
And  call  the  stars  to  come  and  play. 

Oh,  I'm  not  lonely  any  more 

For  country  ways  and  far  seashores 

When  all  my  friendly  little  stars 

Come  tumbling  in  from  out-of-doors. 


[72] 


LOST  SONGS 

I 

JUST  as  the  winds  of  the  west  lie  on  the  heart  of 
the  sunset 
Wrapped  in  a  saffron  cloud  where  the  red  light  comes 

and  goes, 
So  the  souls  of  lost  songs,  fled  from  the  lips  of  the 

singer 

Lie  on  the  laps  of  blue  violets  lulled  to  eternal  re 
pose. 

But  sometimes  when  the  moon  is  on  the  wane 

And  the  stars  seem  vaguely  stencilled  on  the  sky, 

When  darkness  falls  upon  the  earth  like  rain 

And  eerie  footfalls  pass  us  closely  by, 

Then  far  across  the  valley 

Where  the  wood-nymphs  dally 

With  lily  white  feet  in  the  sparkling  stream, 

You  will  find  the  lost  dreams  sleeping 

Where  the  river  nymphs  are  weeping 

And  in  pools  of  purple  fragrance  the  violets  dream. 


[73] 


A  WHITE  SAIL 

THE  light  of  whitest  lilies 
Silvered  all  the  angry  sea, 
And  presently 

The  crimson  dawn  clouds  fluttered  up 
Like  butterflies  in  the  tilted  cup 
Of  a  pink  anemone. 
And  far  away,  far  away, 
Like  a  rose  leaf  dropped  in  the  path  of  the 

day 

By  the  fleeing  midnight  pale, 
A  white  sail,  a  white  sail, 
Came  drifting  in  to  me. 


[74] 


IRREMEDIABLE 

THEY  were  lovers  once,  but  who  shall  cross  again 
That  swift  abyss  dividing  heart  and  heart. 
Their  eyes  once  warm  with  love  are  turned  apart, 
Cool  as  the  sea  with  unremembered  pain, 
On  other  aims  and  other  ventures  bent 
In  soft  unconscious  sadness,  silently. 
It  is  not  love  or  lover  they  lament 
But  that  so  fair  a  thing  should  cease  to  be 


[75] 


THE  ETERNAL  EXILE 

I  SOMETIMES  think  we  meet  so  carelessly, 
As  you  and  I  once  met,  our  hands,  our  eyes. 
And  smiled  unknowing. 

How  could  we  know  that  our  two  lives  were  flowing, 
Swift  as  the  sea  gull  flies, 
Inevitable  as  the  cool  winds  blowing, 
Each  unto  each  as  the  river  to  the  sea? 

We  spoke  of  trivial  things,  and  our  light  laughter 

Met  each  half-spoken  jest,  and  followed  after 

In  meaningless,  happy  mirth. 

For  a  few  fleeting  hours  we  trod  the  earth 

Unconscious  of  a  change  upon  the  wind. 

And  then  you  spoke, — or  I — 

Some  passing  thought,  some  dream,  and  mind  to  mind 

Leapt  with  a  kindling  light  as  in  old  wars 

A  watch-fire  blazing  high  among  the  stars 

Called  forth  a  thousand  beacons  in  reply, 

Signalling  through  the  night. 

With  the  first  breathlessness  of  glad  surprise 

Our  glances  met,  and  now  we  saw  the  light 

Behind  the  eyes. 

[76] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


What  boots  it  how  we  spoke  of  God  and  man, 

Of  poetry  and  truth? 

Where  reason  ended  and  where  faith  began, 

Philosophy, 

Science  and  its  unfathomed  mystery 

The  living  breath? 

To  know  the  unknowable  of  life  and  death 

Is  the  eternal  privilege  of  youth. 

Like  an  explorer  each  fared  forth  to  find 

The  other's  mind, 

And  at  the  end 

With  a  shy  hush  of  awe  we  spoke  the  name  of  friend. 

"Not  light  acquaintanceship, 

True  friends,"  you  said,  and  I 

Assented.     Fate  stood  smiling  by, 

Finger  on  lip. 

We  said,  "When  love  and  faith  are  blended, 
And  mind  is  tuned  to  mind,  and  eye  to  eye 
Looks  with  a  level  gaze,  why  one  so  friended 
Might  still  give  thanks  to  God  when  joy  is  ended 
And  peace  gone  by, 

Holding  the  clasp  of  one  strong  hand  more  sweet 
Than  the  echo  of  a  thousand  careless  feet 
That  know  not  whom  they  seek  and  drift  apart 
With  each  distraction  of  the  heart." 

We  laughed  that  were  so  wise. 
But  in  the  quiet  shadow  of  your  eyes 
[77] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


No  laughter  lay, 

But  such  a  look  as  comes  at  early  morn 

Into  the  sky  before  the  light  is  born 

Presaging  day. 

Like  a  lone  watcher  on  the  hills  I  lay, 

Raised  my  still  glance  to  meet  the  quiet  sky 

And  my  slow  heart  took  on  a  faster  beat 

Unknowing  why. 

I  scarce  can  picture  now  the  first  still  light 

Of  those  new  days. 

Mornings  and  evenings  poised  twjxt  night  and  night 

Unmoving  in  a  veil  of  summer  haze, 

Like  that  still  afterglow  that  lingers  on 

In  arrested  motion  when  the  sun  is  gone, 

A  frozen  beauty  painted  on  the  air, 

Seeming  eternal,  beyond  change,  so  there 

Time  lingered  on  from  silver  hour  to  hour 

And  held  his  breath; 

And  the  gardens  held  their  flower, 

And  the  birds  their  song,  and  you  and  I  were  free 

Of  the  past  and  future,  in  eternity 

Forgetting  life  and  death. 

But  that  was  long  ago,  and  Time  astir 
Has  shut  the  gates  on  our  other  selves  that  were 
In  that  far  Eden.    For  you  spoke, 
And  with  the  silence  broke 

The  enchantment,  and  my  voice  that  answered  woke 
[78] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


Time  from  his  sleep, 

And  the  angel  of  our  conscious  love  to  keep 

The  gates  and  bar  forever  our  return. 

The  future  loomed 

Upon  us,  and  the  past  upraised  its  head 

That  had  been  dead. 

The  flowers  bloomed 

And  died,  and  the  days  moved  on 

From  sun  to  sun. 

And  our  hearts  turned  earthward,  moving  unafraid 

Down  quiet  ways  of  joy  into  the  shade, 

Most  like  to  gods,  who,  leaving  what  we  knew, 

Dared  to  know  all,  and  yet  most  human  too. 

So  fared  we  forth  from  Eden  with  our  kind, 

Knew  pride  and  grief  and  shame, 

Joy  like  the  joy  of  God  that  has  no  name, 

Calm  trust  and  that  strange  fear  that  fills  the  mind 

With  a  hundred  tortuous  images,  fearing  most 

Unworthiness,  and  the  great  cost 

Of  love  such  lack  must  pay,  till  love  grew  blind 

To  love,  and  yet,  strange  paradox,  believed 

What  most  it  doubted  and  was  still  deceived. 

But  you  and  I  held  more  than  this, 

Kinship  of  mind  and  thought, 

Full  recompense  for  that  poor  brittle  bliss 

Of  look  and  kiss 

So  dearly  bought. 

[79] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


We  looked  to  the  same  star,  dreaming  our  dreams 
Near  as  two  souls  may  gain. 
This  wrested  we  from  Time.    What  matter  if 
The  price  be  pain? 

And  half  of  this  we  understood  and  said 

Each  to  the  other  with  slow,  faltering  word, 

And  the  thrush  heard 

And  thrilled  us  with  his  music  overhead. 

How  should  we  know  that  we  too  were  earth-wise 

Who  had  looked  love  in  the  eyes? 

We  said,  if  I  remember, 

That  the  May 

Withers  away 

And  falls  in  golden  showers 

In  September, 

And  the  hot  perfume  of  June's  crimson  flowers 

Endures  but  an  hour's 

Delay. 

But  that  still  beauty  that  pervades  the  year! 

Lives  on  forever,  changing,  beyond  change, 

Wearing  a  thousand  forms,  forever  near, 

Forever  far  and  strange. 

So  love  itself,  changed  and  unchanged,  lives  on 

When  the  crown  of  love  is  gone. 

The  thrush's  voice  and  the  brook's  hurrying  feet 
Filled  the  green  shadows  of  our  cool  retreat 
[80] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


With  music,  and  our  souls  with  quietness, 

Folded  our  lives  away 

From  the  heat  and  press 

Of  the  world's  day. 

And  our  talk  fell  to  less  and  less 

And  died  away. 

Then  your  voice  said  from  where  you  sat  apart: 

"E'en  love  itself  must  hold  in  its  hot  heart 

Some  quiet  spot  of  shade  where  the  broken  word 

And  tremulous  voice  of  passion  is  not  heard, 

And  the  near  lips  and  the  chance  touch  of  hand 

Waken  no  madness  in  the  quiet  blood, 

But  the  eyes  rest  on  eyes  that  understand 

In  simple  quietude, 

Else  love  must  turn  to  madness,  nor  remain 

Secure  and  sane." 

So  said  we  while  the  brook  beneath  our  feet, 

Forever  changing,  ever  still  the  same, 

With  laughter  sweet, 

And  many  a  pause  and  wayward  murmurings 

And  silver  utterance  of  unknown  things 

Slipped  by  and  passed  forever.    And  birds  came 

And  bathed  and  broke  the  surface  with  their  wings, 

And  the  wood  thrush  sang  unseen.    You  spoke  to  me 

Of  the  eternal  charm  and  mystery 

Of  flowing  water  and  the  changeless  tides, 

And  those  dim  things  beyond  the  mind  of  man, 

Space  and  eternity. 

[81] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


And  then  we  smiled,  thinking  we  two  alone 

Of  all  the  ages  and  of  all  the  lands, 

Standing  astride  of  Time,  we  two  have  known 

The  unknowable,  who  have  clasped  hands 

And  loved  beyond  all  measure.     So  we  dreamed, 

And  like  the  sun-splashed  river  streamed 

Time  underneath  our  feet.     Now  that  is  over, 

And  the  loud  silence  in  our  hearts  has  grown 

And  filled  our  lives  where  the  clear  voice  of  the  lover 

Is  silent,  and  the  call  of  earth  is  loud 

To  our  attentive  hearts,  and  love's  faint  breath 

Is  stilled  in  death, 

If  love  can  die.    So  much  at  least  is  Time's 

Who  has  laid  away  our  loves  that  were  too  proud. 

Yet  what  we  said  was  wiser  than  we  knew, 
For  what  has  been  lives  on 
And  bears  its  fruit  in  some  far  other  world 
When  the  mortal  seed  is  gone. 
That  which  has  been  changes  like  the  tide 
That  ebbs  and  flows 

And  wears  from  dawn  to  dark  a  thousand  hues, 
Grays  and  blues, 
Aquamarine  and  rose, 
And  in  the  fading  light 

Takes  home  to  its  still  breast  the  tired  ghosts  of  stars 
At  night, 

Yet  still  lives  on  through  changes  that  impress 
Its  surface  for  a  moment  and  depart 
[82] 


The  Eternal  Exile 


Singly  and  silently  to  change  and  die, 

Reborn  and  redestroyed  relentlessly, 

Yet  cannot  perish  into  nothingness. 

There  is  no  nothingness,  not  even  love 

When  heart  grows  strange  to  heart. 

For  that  which  lived  its  poor  brief  bloom  and  died, 

The  visible  symbol  of  the  eternal  truth, 

Pride  of  our  pride, 

Youth  of  our  youth, 

Like  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  friend 

Lights  our  dim  hour  with  love  unto  the  end, 

Fills  the  unechoing  chambers  of  our  lives 

With  sense  of  unseen  comradeship,  a  peace, 

A  presence  in  the  room. 

Nor  ever  loneliness  or  gloom 

Shall  press  upon  us  though  our  lives  are  strange. 

What's  mortal  knows  indifference  and  change, 

But  what's  immortal  has  no  power  to  cease. 

Love  grew  in  our  eyes  to  fitful  flower, 

And  lived  its  hour 

A  thing  remote,  apart, 

And  died  and  left  despair. 

That  too  is  dead.     But  still  the  love  eternal  in  our 

heart 
Shall  bloom  again  perhaps  some  otherwhere. 


[83] 


RAIN  ON  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE 

COOL  gusts  of  wet,  sweet  winds  that  whip  my 
dress, 

Harsh  rain  upon  my  brow, 
And  the  delighting,  lace-like  filminess 
Of  snowy  spray  flung  from  the  lurching  prow; 
The  engine's  purposeful  and  rhythmic  breath, 
The  living  jar  and  strain 
Of   well-matched   timbers  that  have  passed  through 

death 

And  found  new  life  again; 

The  slim,  white  seagulls  stooping  to  their  prey, 
The  cold  sublimity  of  sky  and  flood, 
The  misty  earth,  the  heaven's  somber  gray, 
The  spangled  river  sweeping  on  its  way — 
All  this  is  in  my  blood. 
I  lean  to  meet  the  waves  that  storm  the  bow, 
I  hold  my  face  to  feel  the  driving  rain, — 
Oh!  wild,  unchastened  heart,  why  yearnest  thou 
To  taste  the  uttermost  of  joy  and  pain? 


[84] 


TWILIGHT  ON  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE 

OH!    the   clear,   starless,   lingering  edge   of   day! 
The   young   moon,   pale   against   the   radiance, 

lending 

A  modest  glow  to  mark  the  quiet  ending 
Of  light  that  lives  alway. 

The  low-hung  lights  of  ships,  the  home  lights  friend 
ing 

The  stranger  dusk;  far  voices  hushed  and  holy; 
The  idle  murmur  of  the  silver-flowing 
Eternal  river,  and  the  pale  moon  bending 
Lowly,  lowly, 

To  kiss  the  clustering  isles, 
And  from  across  sweet  waters, — miles  and  miles 
Of  lakes, — sweet  winds  soft-blowing, — 
Young  moon  beyond  the  river,  stay  your  going. 


[85] 


STARLIGHT 

I  HAVE  lain  on  the  cool  grass  under  the  stars 
And  felt  the  circling  of  the  universe, 
The  tossing  of  that  ship  we  call  the  earth 
Upon  the  ground  swell  of  eternity. 
The  earth  sways  beneath  me,  and  my  soul 
Faints  with  the  dizziness  of  great  distances. 


[86] 


SONNET  SEQUENCE 


1HAVE  said  farewell  and  smiled  and  drawn  away 
My  hand  from  clasping  yours  and  let  you  go. 
The  gray  storm  curtains  folding  round  you  throw 
No  gleam  of  light  across  the  parting  day. 
The  grief  of  those  who  lift  vain  hands  and  pray, 
Having  said  the  last  farewell,  weighs  on  me  so 
There  are  no  tears  can  ease  my  utter  woe. 
Fear  calls  to  heel  and  I  must  needs  obey. 

But  now  deep  peace  succeeds  the  parting  storm, 
And  silence  lies  where  wild  unrest  has  been. 
Thank  God,  thank  God  who  pities  still  our  pain, 
Across  the  lonely  miles  that  lie  between 
Your  heart  is  beating  and  your  hands  are  warm, 
And  we  who  grieve  may  some  day  meet  again. 


This  little,  old,  blue  locket  that  I  wear 
Hung  close  against  my  heart,  how  light  it  lies, 
And  yet  the  burden  of  the  tears  and  sighs 
[87] 


Sonnet  Sequence 


And  the  crown  of  all  my  happy  life  hangs  there. 
The  relics  of  my  faith, — a  lock  of  hair 
Cut  from  the  dear  brow  of  one  loved,  a  prize 
Too  rich  for  such  a  shrine,  the  pictured  eyes, 
Grave  eyes  that  read  my  soul  and  lay  it  bare. 

Some  find  their  God  in  churches,  some  at  sea, 

Or  high  among  the  hills,  but  at  my  shrine 

I  teach  my  head  to  bow  and  bend  the  knee, 

Feeling  the  throbbing  of  a  heart  divine 

In  this  strong  love  that  binds  your  soul  to  mine, 

In  this  dear  passion  between  you  and  me. 


Dear  days  of  our  acquaintance!     One  by  one 
I  turn  them  slowly  over,  lingering 
On  each  light  laugh  and  look  and  smile  and  tone 
Fraught  with  unspoken  meaning,  fingering 
These  faded  flowers  I  sought  to  understand 
Dreaming  they  held  some  word  unuttered, 
And  then,  dear  God,  thy  lips  upon  my  hand, 
Thy  lips,  dear  love,  that  laid  our  friendship  dead. 

Dear  days  of  careless,  sweet  inconsequence, 
Of  undreamed  happiness  of  glance  and  touch, 
Of  budding  hopes  and  glories,  and  the  sense 
That  all  things  matter  much  but  none  too  much; 
[88] 


Sonnet  Sequence 


Dear  days,  you  have  your  perfect  crown  in  this, 
That  he  who  made  you  killed  you  with  a  kiss. 


Dear,  I  am  not  indifferent  as  thou  art 

To  praise  and  blame,  nor  strong  to  smile  at  grief, 

Nor  is  there  strength  or  virtue  in  my  heart 

To  match  thy  valiant  might  of  unbelief. 

I  too  have  dreamed,  beloved,  all  my  days, 

And  dared  the  hidden  fastness  of  the  wind, 

Yet  am  more  used  to  walk  the  common  ways, 

Afraid  to  tread  the  barren  heights  behind. 

Greatness  is  all  too  lonely,  yet  I  know 
I  still  should  dare  to  climb  if  only  thou 
Wilt  take  my  hand  in  thine  and  show  me  how, 
Nor  grow  impatient  when  my  feet  are  slow, 
Still  dare  to  climb  and  see  and  understand, 
Strong  in  the  warm,  dear  comfort  of  thy  hand. 


Oh!  my  beloved,  as  I  dream  to-night 
Before  the  blazing  hearth,  stirred  through  and  through 
By  the  shrill  violin,  the  ruddy  light 
Frames  in  a  sudden  glow  the  face  of  you. 
Now  as  before  your  eyes  are  turned  to  mine 
Full  of  swift  fire  and  dimmed  with  sudden  tears, 
[89] 


Sonnet  Sequence 


And  with  one  indrawn  breath  the  flame  divine 
Flares  heavenward  that  shall  light  all  future  years. 

No  need  for  meeting  lips  or  clasping  hands. 
The  poor,  dull,  clogging  body  holds  its  breath. 
Cut  from  eternity,  a  flaming  sign 
To  mark  the  eternal,  that  brief  moment  stands. 
Earth,  Heaven,  and  the  truths  of  life  and  death 
Hang  tremulous  between  your  eyes  and  mine. 

6 

Stand  farther  off,  beloved,  I  cannot  bear 
Thy  dear  disturbing  nearness  very  long, 
I  who  must  needs  be  still  as  mountain  air, 
And  free  as  mountain  tempests,  and  as  strong. 
The  fortress  in  my  bosom  heaved  and  shook 
Like  a  beleagured  citadel,  when  thou, 
With  the  triumphant  army  of  thy  look, 
Drew  nearer  yet  and  nearer  yet,  and  now — 

Oh!  my  beloved,  for  pity  stand  away. 

I  have  no  strength  to  keep  or  let  thee  go. 

I  who  have  planned  such  wise,  firm  things  to  say 

Am  brave  but  to  be  silent,  for  I  know 

I  have  nor  strength  nor  power  nor  will  to  fear 

The  untried  future,  love,  with  thee  so  near. 


[90] 


SWEETHEART,  WAKE  UP 

SWEETHEART,  wake  up. 
The  day  is  born  anew. 
In  every  flower  cup 
Sparkles  the  dew, 
And  swallows  swoop  and  swing, 
And  bluebirds  sing. 

Sweetheart,  arise! 

The  dawn's  young  blushes  pale. 

Across  the  splendor  of  the  eastern  skies 

The  wild  goose  squadrons  go 

Statelily  slow, 

Sail  upon  sail. 

Sweetheart,  come  out.    Earth's  wonders  mani 
fold 

Knock  on  thy  drowsy  lids. 
What  alchemy  turns  the  red  dawn  to  gold? 
What  dreamer  of  the  sandy  wastes  of  old 
Painted  against  the  sky  the  pyramids? 
What  God  between  the  past  and  the  to  be 
Hung  pendent  like  a  jewel  on  a  chain 
This  shining  hour, — 
[91] 


Sweetheart,  Wake  Up 


The  new,  clear  sunlight,  pure  of  any  stain, 

The  dew  on  leaf  and  flower, 

The  warm,  dear  scent  of  clover, 

The  swallows  swinging  over 

Sprinkling  the  morning  air  with  song  like  rain, 

Love  kin  to  pain, 

Thee 

And  me, 

Thou  so  dear  beloved,  and  I  thy  lover? 

Love  is  the  theme  the  singing  world's  about! 

Sweetheart,  come  out! 


[92] 


THE  BARON'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  Baron  sat  in  his  ancient  hall, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay. 
He  was  bent  and  bowed  who  once  was  tall. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

And  once  he  sighed  for  his  love  long  dead. 

Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay. 

And,  "Had  I  only  a  child,"  he  said. 

Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  fairies  brought  her  in  the  night, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
And  laid  her  on  a  pillow  white. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  fairies  danced  around  his  chair, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
Sweet  as  roses  and  thin  as  air. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

They  sang  aloud  to  the  cold  white  moon, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
"Beware  the  spell  of  the  fairy  tune." 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 
[93] 


The  Barons  Daughter 


The  Baron's  daughter  grew  tall  and  fair, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay. 
The  gold  of  the  sun  was  in  her  hair. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  Baron's  daughter  grew  fair  and  wild, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
Fair  and  wild  as  a  fairy's  child. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  Baron  loved  her  passing  well, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
And  guarded  her  from  the  fairy  spell. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

He  gave  her  a  cross  on  a  silken  band, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
But  the  silk  was  woven  in  fairyland. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

There  came  a  minstrel  to  the  hall, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
And  he  was  young  and  straight  and  tall. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

They  sat  him  down  at  the  table  long, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
They  sat  him  down  the  knights  among. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 
[94] 


The  Baron's  Daughter 


The  minstrel  sang  a  fairy  tune, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
The  knights  fell  down  as  in  a  swoon. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  fairies  danced  on  the  oaken  stair 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
But  the  Baron  slept  in  his  carven  chair. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

His  daughter  crept  to  the  minstrel's  knee, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
And  white  as  the  hillside  snows  was  she, 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  Baron's  daughter  raised  her  head, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
And  "Stranger,  who  may  you  be?"  she  said. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

He  bent  him  down  and  drew  her  near, 

Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 

And  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  dark  with 

fear. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  maid  has  gone  from  her  father's  hall. 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
She  is  gone  with  her  lover  so  straight  and  tall. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 
[95] 


The  Baron's  Daughter 


He  has  taken  her  home  o'er  hill  and  lea, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
To  the  cold  white  moons  of  her  own  countree. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

The  Baron  sits  in  his  ancient  hall, 
Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 
He  is  bent  and  bowed  that  once  was  tall. 
Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

He  has  sought  her  far  but  he  knoweth  well, 

Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 

No  man  may  break  the  fairy  spell 

Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 

He  has  sought  her  far  through  sun  and  rain, 

Hey,  ho,  with  a  roundelay, 

But  she  will  never  come  back  again. 

Oh,  the  lanes  are  white  with  may. 


[96] 


INEFFABLE 

"1  %  THAT  wilt  thou?"  came  the  ocean's  call  to  me. 
V  V    "What  wilt  thou?"  sang  the  bird  upon  the 

bough. 

What  can  I  say?    Tis  only  thou  and  thou. 
How  can  I  answer  to  thy  cry,  0  sea? 
The  bluebird's  song,  a  mocking  melody, 
Falls  from  the  painted  heav'n,  fading  now, 
The  late  sun  sets  beyond  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  stars  peep  through  the  cloud-folds,  silently. 

A  breeze  comes  from  the  meadows,  soft,  and  cool, 

And  sweet,  as  wandering  from  fields  of  broom; 

And  mirrored  in  the  bosom  of  the  pool 

The  sunset  opens  slowly  into  bloom. 

Still,  still  the  ocean's  voice  comes  in  to  me. 

How  may  I  answer  to  thy  cry,  0  sea? 


[97] 


ENTREAT  ME  NOT 

ENTREAT  me  not  to  love  you.    All  my  heart 
Is  very  cool  and  still.    No  swifter  beat 
Leaps  up  to  meet 
Your  nearness  when  you  stand 
Beside  me,  or  your  lips  upon  my  hand. 

I  have  given  you  so  much,  gifts  without  end, 

My  thoughts,  my  hopes  and  dreams,  my  faiths  and 

fears, 

Long  days  of  laughter,  called  you  friend 
Through  all  the  years; 
All  that  my  mind  can  give  and  all  my  will, 
And  still 

You  are  not  satisfied. 
The  best  I  have  to  give  you  cast  aside, 
Claiming  the  last,  high  gift, — alas,  I  know 
I  do  not  love  you  so. 

Yet    sometimes    when    you're    gone    the    long    days 

through 
I  have  great  need  of  you. 


[98] 


I  AM  GROWN  A  WOMAN 

I  AM  grown  a  woman,  so  they  say, 
In  some  strange  way, 
And  songs  and  laughter  stir 
New  visions,  new  desires. 
I  think  they  do  not  know  that  oftener 
I  dream  of  far,  cool  seas  and  red  campfires, 
And  brooks  of  childhood,  chattering  and  sweet 
Around  bare  feet. 

But  when  I  dream  to-day 

A  new,  hard  pain 

Shuts  on  my  heart  lest  I  should  pass  again 

That  old,  glad  way. 

I  am  grown  a  woman,  so  they  say. 


[99] 


THE  WEST  WIND  AND  A  ROSE 

I  BREATHED  upon  her  petals  pink, 
For  she  was  wondrous  fair. 
I  crept  into  her  hidden  heart 
And  found  it  golden  there; 
I  swayed  her  on  her  graceful  stem 
And  begged  her  for  a  kiss. 
In  all  the  world  I  have  not  found 
A  flower  as  sweet  as  this. 

Fair  courtesans  of  field  and  wood 
May  woo  me  as  I  pass, 
But  I'd  give  all  their  beauty  for 
A  rose  leaf  on  the  grass. 


[100] 


IF  FAITH  SHOULD  DIE 

IF  faith  should  die, 
And  love  immutable  grow  cold  and  change, 
And  you  and  I 

So  loving  and  so  loved  grow  vexed  and  strange, 
What  should  I  do,  0  God,  what  should  I  do, 
Calling  on  empty  air,  clasping  the  shadow  that  was 
you? 

Yet  still  through  windy  ways  from  sky  to  sky 

The  wild  geese  fly. 

And  still  the  clear  dawn  brushes  with  her  feet 

Lush  pastures,  cool  and  sweet, 

And  I  shall  find  new  paths  and  other  ways, 

And  young,  new  days, 

Forgetting  that  I  dreamed  a  long  night  through 

Mad  dreams  of  earth  and  heaven  and  hell  and  you. 


[101] 


POSEIDON  OF  MANY  MOODS 

THE  tempest  stands  before  the  gates  of  heaven 
Clad  in  a  purple  tunic, 
Crouched  like  a  man  about  to  run  a  race. 
And  now,  the  signal  given, 
Comes  on  apace. 
God  of  the  merciful  waters, 
Hold  thy  white  steeds  awhile! 
The  prayers  of  thy  daughters, 
The  tears  of  thy  daughters 
Implore  thee,  Poseidon,  smile. 
God,  thou  hast  taken  our  all; 
Render  us  back  our  own! 
The  light  is  gone  from  thy  hall, 
And  thine  eyes  are  cold  as  stone. 
Thy  bosom  is  wide  and  lone. 
God,  give  them  back  to  us,  back  to  us! 

Poseidon  lays  him  down  between  the  lands, 

Resting  his  head  upon  the  sands. 

His  white  hair  washes  in  and  floats  away 

Where  children  play, 

And  his  broad  bosom  breathes,  serene  and  deep, 

As  though  in  sleep. 

[102] 


Poseidon  of  Many  Moods 


But  slyly  under  drooping  lids  he  sees 
The  barefoot  babies  romping  unawares, 
The  water  splashing  high  about  their  knees, 
And  slyly  smiles  to  see  them  jump  and  run, 
Bright-headed,  in  the  sun, 
With  eyes  as  young  as  theirs. 
Oh,  gentle  God  of  children,  lend  thine  ear. 
Poseidon  hear! 

Who  has  not  known  it  that  Poseidon  loves  the  red 

wine 

Grown  on  high  Olympus  when  the  gods  were  there? 
In  the  upturned  sunset  cup,  see  the  royal  red  shine, 
Wafted  to  his  thirsty  lips  through  leagues  of  limpid 

air. 

Oh,  the  dance  that  follows  after! 
Oh,  the  breathless,  deathless  laughter! 
The  nipping  whiteness  of  his  teeth  bared  against  the 

sky. 

Oh,  the  drunken,  reeling  billows 
Decked  with  lace  from  mermaids'  pillows, 
And  their  wild,  exultant  laughter  as  the  cold  sprays 

fly. 

Drunken  king,  in  very  truth 
Thou  hast  bound  the  heart  of  youth 
And  holdst  it  captive  by  the  magic  of  thy  silver  tongue. 
Oh,  Poseidon,  what  divine 
Vintage  of  the  gods  is  thine, 

Grown  on  high  Olympus  when  the  world  was  young! 
[103] 


Poseidon  of  Many  Moods 


Out    beyond    the    world's    edge   thou    liest    in    state, 

Poseidon, 

Out  beyond  the  sea's  edge,  out  beyond  the  foam, 
Of  interlacing  coral  boughs 
Thou  hast  built  thyself  a  house, 
Out  of  pearly  shell  fish  thou  hast  reared  thyself  a 

home. 

There  the  white  armed  Nereids  play 
In  the  spray, 

And  the  sea  nymphs  dance  at  night 
Down  the  moon  path  in  a  white 
Radiance,  bright  as  day. 

From   beyond   the  world's   edge  thy   call   comes  in, 
Poseidon, 

From  beyond  the  sea's  edge  o'er  the  curling  foam: 

Over  half  the  world  it  comes,  resistless  and  compel 
ling. 

And   thy   children   answer   it   and   gladly   turn   them 
home. 

Over  all  the  sea's  face  the  white  sails  are  swelling, 

Beating  down  the  salt  winds  from  unknown  lands, 

For  thy  voice  is  young  and  sweet,  and  the  fading 
skyline 

Beckons  to  adventure,  and  the  world  is  in  our  hands. 

Dreams    of    ancient   buccaneers    and   sailors    of    old 
England, 

Dreams  of  Scott,  and  Peary  with  his  frozen  sail 
[104] 


Poseidon  of  Many  Moods 


Fill  our  eyes  with  golden  visions  and  our  hearts  with 

yearning. 
All  the  seas  are  ours  to  roam.     What  reck  we  if  we 

fail? 

Gain  or  lose, 
Who  shall  choose? 
In  thy  hands  are  storm  and  gale. 
Sails  are  set, 
DCCKS  are  wet, 
The  wind  is  in  our  sail. 
Blue  heav'n  is  o'er  us, 
Life  before  us. 
What  reck  we  if  we  fail? 

Poseidon,  all-father,  thy  child  is  come  home  again. 

Long  ages  since  from  thy  bosom  we  rose, 

Now  we  come  back  on  thy  bosom  to  roam  again, 

Shorten  earth's  span 

By  the  life  of  a  man 

Then  back  to  thy  fount  head  to  take  our  repose. 

What  shall  come  after, 

Tears,  then,  or  laughter? 

Many  have  striven  to  grasp  what  shall  be. 
Life?    We  did  live  it. 
Peace?   Thou  wilt  give  it 
Down  in  the  purple  green  depths  of  the  sea. 
We  who  have  taken  all, 
Loved  and  forsaken  all, 

Giving  our  hearts  and  our  souls  to  life's  quest, 
[105] 


Poseidon  of  Many  Moods 


More  than  the  prudent  wise, 

We  have  known  Paradise, 

We  have  seen  life  at  its  worst  and  its  best. 

Poseidon,  thou'st  given 

Better  than  heaven, 

Knowledge  to  suffer  and  joy  and  be  free. 

Meeting  death's  cold  kiss 

We  turn  where  oblivion  is 

Under  the  sea. 


[106] 


ON  CASCO  BAY 


OH  the  romance  of  the  ocean  has  caught  me  in  a 
net, 
The  pulsing  heart,  the  groping  hands,  the  lips  against 

the  sky. 
The  long  white  hands  have  found  me  and  I  never  can 

forget. 

The  glory  and  the  motion,  the  rhythm  and  the  fret 
Are  part  of  me,  the  heart  of  me 
And  shall  be  till  I  die. 


II 

Oh,  the  ships  that  come  and  go, 
Oh,  the  breakers'  hammer  shocks, 
Oh,  the  sails  of  burnished  show, 
And  the  hot  sun  on  the  rocks! 
Oh,  the  blue  of  sea  and  sky, 
And  the  wind's  kiss  on  my  lips. 
Oh,  the  gulls  that  circle  by, 
And  the  dancing  of  the  ships! 
[107] 


On  Casco  Bay 


in 


I  hear  in  mournful,  intermittent  roar 

The  sweet-tongued  waves  upon  the  shore; 

I  see  the  white-capped  billows  of  the  clouds 

Beat  on  the  jagged  horn  of  the  low  moon, 

And  evermore 

Mine  awed  heart  cries  "Forbear!" 

I  cannot  understand  your  song 

Nor  catch  the  rhythm  of  your  tune. 


[108] 


THE  GULLS 

A  WHIRL  and  ebb  of  gray  and  white 
A  whirr  and  sweep  of  driving  wings, 
Stooping,  swooping,  where 
Far  below  the  ocean  flings 
Sparkling  spray  to  crown  them  kings 
Of  the  light  and  air; 
Swinging  where  the  white  cloud  swings 
Transfixed  through  its  heart  with  light, 
Mystically  fair. 

Who  shall  whisper  what  they  sing 
Passing  swiftly  on  the  wing 
Of  the  rapture,  fierce,  undying, 
And  their  own  wild  hearts  replying, 
Of  the  grandeur,  cold  and  lone. 
Yea,  indeed,  thrice  happy  he, 
Who  in  measured  melody 
Makes  their  joy  his  own. 
Freedom  of  the  wind-swept  air, 
Glory  of  the  painted  sky 
For  the  taking.    You  and  I 
Pent  within  the  city's  glare 
[109] 


The  Gulls 


Put  our  sad  hearts  sadly  by, 
Yearning  unaware. 

A  whirl  and  ebb  of  gray  and  white, 
A  whirr  and  sweep  of  driving  wings, 
And  far  below  the  ocean  sings 
And  far  above  in  veering  flight 
Spirits  of  the  storm  and  wind, 
Trailing  silver  light  behind, 
Sport  among  the  dark  clouds,  crying 
Of  a  rapture,  wild,  undying, 
And  my  own  wild  heart  replying 
In  a  broken  melody 
Singeth  to  the  sobbing  sea. 


[110] 


FREE  VERSE 


HAUNTED  MUSIC 

THE  old  violin,  broken  a  thousand  tiroes, 
Mended  as  many, 
Scarred  and  battered, 
Worn,  old, 

Has   learned   to    answer   to  the  passion   of   the 
master. 

Ah,  the  soul  compelling  voice  of  her  singing. 
There  are  eyes  that  wander,  eyes  that  drowse, 
Eyes  full  of  dreams,  eyes  dark  with  passion, 
Wistful  eyes,  eyes  of  attainment. 

God  breaks  hearts  and  mends  them 
In  a  thousand  curious  ways. 


[113] 


WHEN  ONE  WAITS  AT  NIGHT 

WHEN  one  waits  at  night 
The  moments  creep  so  slowly,  on  such 

leaden  feet. 

When  one  waits  at  night 
The  darkness  is  so  very  dark, 
The  silence  so  very  still. 

The  beating  of  one's  own  heart  is  painful. 

Oh,   the   disappointments   of   the  footsteps   that 

come 

And  do  not  pause. 
The  darkness  is  so  very  dark, 
The  silence  so  very  still 
When  one  waits  at  night. 


[114] 


LAKE  GEORGE 

HILLS  of  my  love,  that  I  have  known  and  loved, 
To-night  I  know  you  not,  you  smite  my  heart 
With  a  new  beauty. 

You  have  drawn  a  veil  across  your  bosom. 
I  put  out  my  hand,  and  cloud-like 
The  world  melts  and  fades, 
And  the  sunset  glows  through  the  gray  mist 
Upon  a  land  of  clouds. 
The  lake's  broad  breast  heaves  and  rocks  my  frail 

canoe. 

That  alone  is  real,  bearing  me  through  a  dream. 
Some    one   is    singing    the    "Land    of    the   Sky-blue 

Waters." 

The  music  lays  light  fingers  upon  me 
Wringing  my  heart. 
I  who  know  not  love,  to-night  I  love. 
I  who  know  not  grief,  to-night  I  grieve. 
I  who  know  not  joy,  tremble  at  the  knocking  of  light 

fingers  on  my  heart. 

Hills  of  my  love,  I  have  come  to  you  again, 
In  the  land  where  I  build  my  dreams  I  have  found 

you. 

[115] 


FAIRY  TALE 

THE  sun  shone  on  the  east  wall  of  the  tower. 
The  shadow  peeped  around  the  edge 
Trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bright  pursuer. 
I  think  the  pitiful  flowers  weep 
Because  the  shadow  never  sees  the  sun. 
I  saw  the  sweep  of  her  gown  as  she  gathered    it 

close 

Standing  a-tiptoe  in  the  corner. 
Then  she  was  gone. 

The  sun  reached  out  his  arms  in  vain. 
I  saw  him  peep  into  the  cups  of  roses 
Wondering  if  she  were  hiding  there, 
And  laughed  to  myself. 
He  will  never  find  her 
Where  she  lies  hidden  in  my  heart. 


[116] 


THE  BENCH  BESIDE  THE  DOOR 

I   HAVE  wandered  the  garden  all  around, 
I  have  looked  at  the  rose  bush  from  ev'ry  side, 
But   now   I've   come   back  to   the   bench  beside  the 

door, — 
You  can  see  the  roses  best  from  there. 

I  have  wandered  over  all  the  world, 

I  have  seen  the  sun  in  the  east  and  in  the  west, 

But  now  I've  come  back  to  the  bench  beside  the  door, 

The  sun  shines  warmest  there. 

I  have  wandered  through  all  the  realm  of  dreams, 

I  have  looked  at  my  desire  from  ev'ry  side, 

But   now'  I've   come   back   to   the   bench  beside   the 

door, — 
'Tis  only  there  my  heart  forgets  itself  and  sings. 


[117] 


THROUGH  THE  GROVE  OF  DREAMS 

THROUGH    the    grove    of    dreams,    through    the 
thicket  of  wild  speculations 
I  have  wandered  on  light  feet. 
The  dew  was  on  my  forehead,  the  fire  eternal  in  my 

heart. 

I  fancied  that  I  had  found  a  short  cut  to  the  stars. 
I  plunged  recklessly  through  the  brambles, 
Brave  with  my  dreams, 
And  found  at  my  feet  the  broad  highway 
Unrolled  like  a  scroll. 

There  were  voices  there  and  faces  that  I  knew 
Familiarly  strange  as  seen  through  other  eyes, — 
How  simple,  sweet,  and  excellent  is  life. 


[118] 


DOWN  THE  RAINY  STREET 

DOWN  the  rainy  street  in  a  breathing  space  of  the 
rain 

A  man  comes  with  a  wagon  of  fruit. 
He  chants  his  wares  in  a  rich,  melodious  voice 
Full  of  a  round  and  hearty  cheer. 
"Strawberries,    strawberries,    fine    fruit    and    straw 
berries." 

Out  of  the  distance  his  voice  comes  slowly 
And  fades  again. 
And  the  birds  sing  in  the  dripping  branches. 


[119] 


SPRING  MIGRATION 

SEE  where  he  sits  upon  the  topmost  bough 
Singing  now. 

He  and  the  sun  together  set  a-tune 
The  laughing  air  with  promises  of  May, 
And  farther  off  of  June. 

He  and  the  sun  together  pass  away 
To  northern  climes,  and  yet  they  leave  behind 
Ropes  of  fair  flowers  for  the  hours  to  bind 
The  truant  May. 


[120] 


NON  OMNIS  MORIAR 

1  Tl  THEN  there  shall  come  an  ending  of  the  tune 
V  V    And  all  the  sweet  and  bitter  in  the  sum 
Of  one  great  chord  the  Master  shall  take  home; 
Then,  when  the  far  cry  of  the  wailing  loon 
Shrills  down  the  waters  of  the  still  lagoon 
And  mingles  with  the  drowsy  insects'  hum, 
Because  I  so  have  loved  her,  I  shall  come 
To  haunt  once  more  the  long,  sweet,  paths  of  June. 

And  when  the  magic  moment  holds  the  earth 
When  great  Apollo  swings  below  the  skies, 
And  when,  the  signal  of  another  birth, 
The  wheels  of  his  supernal  chariot  rise, 
Then  you  shall  hear  with  all  the  birds  a-tune 
The  heart  I  left  to  sing  again  in  June. 


[121] 


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